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My Mother My Roommate: Part 1 - The Move

This is my mom, Betty.
 I've know her for 43 years now. Of course when we first met, I couldn't walk, talk, eat on my own or anything else other than scream for her when I wanted something. Regardless of my selfish behavior, she was always there for me from the start. She wiped my nose and my butt all while thinking I was the cutest thing on the earth and she even taught me how to drink...


She devoted her life to me and to this day, she still talks me up and never, and I mean never, would say one disrespectful thing about me. This means that it is with careful consideration that I start this blog post series, My Mother My Roommate.

In 2009, a year after my father passed away, it was decided that it was time for Mom to sell her Arlington, Virginia house which she had shared with my father since 1962.
The House, The Mexican Restaurant and "New" Arlington

Mom was struggling with all of the responsibilities of dealing with a household on her own. I, being the only child, was finding it increasingly difficult to manage those responsibilities, along with my own as well as run a retail sewing store.

Mom agreed to move 547 miles north, to Montpelier, Vermont, abandoning suburban Washington, D.C. which held as she stated, "just too many memories." Within a few weeks, her house sold and I showed up with a moving truck. What happened after has been an adventure.

Moving day was easy. Mom gave everything away before I ever told her I was coming with a U-haul. All that was left was her Mid-Century Modern dining room set, end tables, sofas and other necessary furniture. I moved the large items to a storage facility near by, sold some knick-knacks at a yard sale and gave the final furniture pieces, which we didn't need, away.

Memories in front of the stairs and fireplace
There were never any tears shed by Mom. She took everything in stride, which worried me to a degree as I drove away with a handkerchief in hand, wiping back tears and wishing that I didn't have to leave my childhood home. Mom was right, there were just so many memories; the fireplace and staircase set the backdrop of every pivotal photograph worthy moment of my life, the walk up Abingdon Street from the local Mexican Restaurant, the squeaky poorly adjusted porch door and cliche or not, my height chart on the dining room molding just to name a few.

As we drove away with Calvin in Mom's lap (we'll hear more about him later), I vowed to myself to take care of my mom the same way that she took care of me, no complaining, loving respect, she comes first. Eight years later, I quietly mumble this credo to myself as the challenges of having Mom as my housemate multiply...

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