Parenting my parents

I was talking to my mom last night. She was rather upset. And whiny.

The maid, apparently, had accidentally broken one of my mom's expensive Ganesh figurines.
"Rs 350 - down the drain," my mom said. Even though she was more than 9000 miles away, I could almost see the froth buiding up around her mouth.

More than the loss, however, my mom was upset at how lightly my dad had treated the episode.
He'd shrugged and said, "what can we do?"

My mom would have liked my dad a lot better if he had taken control of the situation, supported her, and chastised the maid. That, quite obviously, did not happen; and what ensued was a fight.

"He just sits around all day - busy with his students, or his laptop, or the newspaper," my mom continued. And then she called him many things, which I will not mention here.

I listened patiently. Because that's what I do. One of my friends called me a sponge once, because I soak up others' worries, insecurities, complaints, sorrows... I don't know why. I just do. I could understand how my mom felt - I'm a lot like her -I like attention, and expect some care and love from the people around me. But I could understand how my dad felt too - since I have a lot of him in me. A broken figurine was hardly something to cry about.

And then I talked. I consoled her. I convinced her that dad, and the rest of us, were totally in awe of her, and often told our friends stories about how strong she was, and how she could do so many things we were all scared of doing. For example, one summer, when the mango tree in our backyard was loaded with mangoes, monkeys were showing up daily to have their share. And driving my dog, Pepsi, mad while she barked her head off at them. Finally, my mom decided she'd had enough, and started waving a stick at them (the monkeys). The monkeys snarled,
and deliberately broke off a branch and threw it down at Pepsi. Pepsi escaped, but her barks got shriller.
The monkeys didn't come back - at least not that year.

Another time, when my mom realized we had a mice-problem in the storage room (these problems are pretty common in India), she decided to chase the mice away. She pulled out the suitcases and opened them, and my dad and my sister and I helped her. A minute later my sister screamed - she'd just unzipped a bag and witnessed a family of mice sitting inside it.

My dad, my sister and I bolted. My mom gave us a resentful look, and then proceeded to pick up the bag and step outside the house. She released the mice in the park across the street.

Anyway, coming back to the main story - after my mom heard me tell her these things, she said in a tense voice, angry but reluctantly pleased - 'You're such a diplomat. Defending your dad and pacifying me at the same time."

After that, I had a talk with my dad. I told him that he had to start spending some more time at home. And taking mom out more. And coming up with new ways/ideas to have fun. Like trying a new recipe. Or playing cards with her. I said I'd check on them every week. And that they'd better be prepared for cross-questioning.

Needless to say, I felt like I was 77 years old.