Neurotic Nastalgia

If geneality has anything to do with anything, I am doomed to become one neurotic woman.
My mom is one of those moms that would be useless in an emergency. Actually, scrap that, not would be – she IS useless in a situation.

I remember years ago late one night Kiera started choking. I was holding her semi-upside down, Kev was rubbing her back, and my mom… well my mom was not helping. She ran from me to the bathroom to the bedroom to me to the lounge to the passage with her arms flailing behind her. Eventually Kev and I locked the bedroom door and quietly tried to fix Kiera while my mother not so quietly tried to get a grip. Incidentally, she never did. Kiera was fast asleep by the time she had thought of taking a breath.

Spice was the family hamster. He lived in a cage on the kitchen table and lived off cheese and anything else my brothers would throw into his hole. He lived two years longer than his life expectancy, my mom swears its because the wine she fleetingly gave him preserved his organs. Spice eventually got that disease that is so common, cancer in the head. Darryn begged her to give Spice to him to feed to his snake, as they were starving, but Mom refused and did what only she would naturally do, she took him to the vet to get euthanised. Picture her at the Vet’s surgery table, sobbing into a little ball of fluff and the Vet trying to push his way closer to the Hamster in order to do his job.

At work one day, an Afrikoon walked into my Mothers office with a fallen nest containing two little Indian Miner Birds with hardly any feathers. Any sane person would have gotten rid of the things as it was clear they were not going to make it through this life easily. Not my mother. She rushed to the Pet shop, bought all necessary things required for saving birds lives. I got home that night to see them in a little box, under a UV light, squaking to their hearts content. On the hour, every hour Mom would get out of bed, mix them up some cereal and feed it to them lovingly. One bird didn’t make it through the night, the other bird grew up to be Moodley, the Indian Miner.

Moodley was an insane little fucker. She attacked every single one of us if we so much as breathed too loudly. I especially remember her being particularly unfond of me. She would flap her wings and dive, beak first, into my skull. My brothers would only sit in the lounge if they had gloves, goggles, beanies and blankets on in order to protect themselves. Moodley was left outside too long one day and developed “bronchitis”. The mother had the vet ventilate the bird.

I rest my case.