The Bride Still Needs her Mommy

I hate how addicted and tied I am to technology. I feel like my cell phone has been an extension of my body for the last 16 years. Yes . . . I had an original brick phone. I had to carry a huge purse just to accommodate its size. I’m sure I’ll end up with some sort of brain cancer that is linked to the radio waves from holding a phone so close to my ear for decades. I sleep with it. It is more intimate with me than any man . . . meaning I let it spend the night.

I hate my new phone. First it didn’t let me transfer any of my contacts from my last phone. No SIM card. Verizon couldn’t get their thingamagig to work. Unless I wanted to manually enter everything I was out of luck. I’m too lazy for that! I just turn on the old phone and use it as a rolodex. Second, the battery SUCKS!!! One little warning and five minutes later the phone is dead. No warning. No time to find your car charger. What kind of stupid phone doesn’t allow for a time crunch? What if I left my phone and wall charger at home? Am I supposed to suffer without being accessible? What if someone needs me?

Well, it happened. Tonight on my way to dinner the single beep warning with the low battery warning flashed. My car charger was in my carry on from the weekend. My wall charger, it’s in bed of course, because that is where my phone lives and revitalizes at night. It’s just a quick business dinner. What can happen in a couple of hours? Well, my sister is pregnant and due at any minute, but my fam knows I’m with Kel, they will call her phone if there is an emergency.

Dinner and wine with a creepy sales rep. I am doing a favor for Kel. She knew him twenty-five years ago. He found her on Facebook. What was I to do but agree to meet him? Plus he flew into town for the meeting.

The 911 please call me text was left unanswered.

I didn’t know I had five missed calls.

Ky was smart enough to call Kel on her cell. She knew we were together. How was she to know Kel was sitting on her phone? Cell phone etiquette, she had it set to vibrate. For most this wouldn’t be a problem. For most, sitting on a vibrating phone would be a pleasurable thing. Problem is, my best friend Kel has no feeling below her breasts! The wheelchair might have felt the multiple shakes for help, but not us.

It wasn’t until I got home and plugged in my phone that I heard the calls for help.

“Mom, please call me.”

“911, answer please!”

“I’m in the ER”

Panic hit. Who is in the ER? Is my sis having Little L? Has The GOB passed out? Is Stretch getting yet another set of stitches? What is going on?

I called and got a quiet yet sad little voice. Kyky said she gashed her leg open but they were getting ready to stitch her up.

My baby’s first stitches. Twenty years and I have never taken her to the ER. My phone was dead! I am the worst mom ever.

“Don’t come, Stretch is with me. I’m OK.”

F*u!@ THAT I’m on my way!!!!

I’m not sure who was happier to see me. The fiancé’ who was tired and not sure what the hell he was supposed to be doing. Or my baby who was sheltering her face from the sewing of her flesh from behind her token hoodie. Either way, they both needed me and it felt morbidly wrong. I didn’t care that they needed the $100 co-pay, the insurance papers filled out or the hands held. I was there and they needed me.

We all survived the stitches. Stretch escaped in the parking lot. I got to drive her home. Stop to get her dinner. Bring her drugs, elevate her leg and assure her that it didn’t look that bad. I reminded her that she thought Tea length dresses were dorky and that they were the only ones that would show the scar. I was needed.

She finished her burger and I reassured her that Maderma would erase the night, and then she asked me to wash the blood off her foot. I ran to the bathroom to ready a warm cloth. As she sat on the dining room chair eating curly fries, I washed the blood from her leg and in between her toes. I asked, “Do you feel like Jesus?” She gave me a look like WTF are you talking about? I was thinking about my little niece getting her feet washed by her Catholic School teacher on Ash Wednesday. Suddenly I remembered the lesson and laughed. Oh yeah, Jesus washed the feet. That means I’m Jesus!

We both went to bed happy, sore and sad that technology failed us, but happy that the night ended together. OMG, I am the Mother of the Bride, and she still needs me!