Poppycock!

You all know that popcorn/nut confection called Poppycock, right? Well, my parents love the stuff. So much so that we always have at least one extra bag on hand at all times. Ya never know when the craving for sugar will hit.

And hit it did, the other evening. But before I go through the whole story, a little background. First, you must understand that, for some reason which I have yet to figure out, there are certain trivial tasks that my parents assume I am completely incapable of performing. Changing light bulbs is one. Lifting fifty pound bags of dog food is another. Opening the big, sliding barn door is another. But they have no problem accepting that I do things like fetching the newspaper, making the coffee, feeding the dogs, balancing the checkbooks, paying the bills, shopping, cooking, scheduling the gazillion doctors' appointments they both have, and let's not forget, managing the umpteen different medications they both take. I do these things, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, gladly, happily, and, most of the time, quite proficiently. And yet, in spite of this, when one of the recessed lights recently went out in the kitchen ceiling, my father immediately asked me, "When is your brother coming up to visit next? He'll need to change that light bulb in the kitchen."

I didn't reply. I just went ahead and changed the light bulb. They were astonished. "how did you get up that high to change the bulb?" they both asked me. I mean.......... I was able to........omg..........change........a.........freakin' light bulb! It kills me. But, of course, I never say anything. I just chuckle and go about my business--ya know, all that other stuff I do when I'm not changing light bulbs.

So anyway, here's the story. I was sitting in my office working. It was about six in the evening. Mom and Dad had finished their evening meal. Mom came toddling down the hall and stopped at my office door. "Is Jack coming over tonight?" (I have a boyfriend. His name isn't Jack but we'll call him that for the sake of privacy.)
"No, he's not Mom. Why?"

(You have to picture the slow, labored speech pattern that my mother has.) "Weeeeell, the bag, of Poppycock, is on the, top shelf, and I can't reach it, and, neither can your dad, so I was hoping, Jack could get it down for us, if he was coming over."

Yeah. She says this, completely seriously, looking straight at me, like it never occurred to her that I might be able to get her Poppycock down for her! I mean.......what am I? Chopped liver?! Do I have two legs? Two arms? And even if I didn't, I'm sure I could figure out a way to get her d____ Poppycock down for her!

Anyway, okay, so that was me venting.

So I just smiled and said, "Mom! I can get it down for you!" Then I popped up out of my chair, went into the kitchen, reached up to the top shelf of the pantry, and fetched the bag of Poppycock for her. She thanked me (she always thanks me). End of story.

But not really. Because the real point here is this: I've noticed we never escape our position in the family. I'm fifty-five years old but I'm the youngest in my family and my parents cannot get it out of their heads that I was and always will be the "baby," the helpless one, the one who my brothers have to always help out, even when they live thousands of miles away. It's frustrating, it's an ongoing challenge, it's.........it's........Poppycock!