ingrained

I fed Mom and Dad some barbecue chicken and the remains of my homemade cole slaw. The chicken turned out better than it did when I first made it for my relatives (the meat was dry on the day I made those chicken sandwiches; today, I used thicker slices of chicken), and Mom ate her whole plate, along with a healthy serving of the fruit salad I'd made yesterday.

Dad had to go out to do some errands. It was a beautiful afternoon, so I took Mom out to Fort Hunt Park. We walked the same course we'd done on Thursday; Mom was able to walk the distance just fine, but her balance was slightly off and her legs were too weak to allow her to get out of the sedan herself. Still, she did as well as could be expected. We then wended our way north along the parkway, hitting a picnic area I'd never been to before, then driving north into Old Town Alexandria. We did little more than peek at the Potomac River before turning around and going home.

What struck me, as we were driving, was how Mom would look left and right whenever I made certain turns in the car: I could see that she was scanning for approaching traffic. Such behavior has a logical basis, but as all drivers know, the moves become second nature. I suppose it's safe to say that, for Mom as for other drivers, certain moves become so ingrained that they happen even without conscious thought.

We arrived home just as the clouds were coming in. Mom's seated at her throne again, watching a show on the Food Network. Dad's not home yet, and I'm contemplating making some sort of shrimp-and-scallop concoction for dinner.

And that, folks, is life at our house.


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