Old Moms, Children, And Half A Jug Of Whine

I am formulating a new scientific theory. I am so certain of my data that I'm going to bypass the theory part, and make it a law. Hillbilly Mom's Law of Universal Ingestional Interruption.

You know what people forget to warn you about when you are mere days away from bringing a little bundle of joy into the world? YOU WILL NEVER AGAIN HAVE AN UNINTERRUPTED MEAL. That's what.

You can feed that baby until it's full as a tick. Dandle it on your knee until its eyelids droop. Lull it into a deep sleep with the repetitive motion and hum of a mechanical swing. But the second you sit down and dare to put a morsel into your mouth, your petite cherub cranks open its gaping maw and commences to caterwauling until you put down your fork.

Oh, you can hope that the infant will grow out of this phase. And with a boatload of luck and a truckload of karma, that might just happen. At the exact moment your mother starts calling you the nanosecond you sit down to supper.

I screen my calls. That's what grown-up babies are for. The Pony is an effective personal secretary. Only two numbers will pass the screen test at mealtime. One is the school information line during inclement weather. And the other is my septuagenarian mother.

I refuse to screen my mother's calls. No matter what I'm doing, I pick up. Because that's only right. After all, I kept her from enjoying many a repast. And now it's my turn.