In which my mother puts us in the same room

Thanksgiving 2006 My mother has already met Primo, but this is our first visit to her house.

Wait. Have I told you about the first time my mom met Primo? I don't remember and I don't want to back out of writing this to read my archives. If I don't remember, then you, my treasured reader*, probably do not remember either. I took him to a family reunion type event.** We had been dating for about ten months. My mom came over, exclaimed, "You must be Primo!" hugged him, then dragged him away, saying, "Come tell me all about yourself!" My mom loooooves Primo. My mother, woman of great manners and great taste.

So. We fly to a nearby city and rent a car to drive the 90 miles to my mom's. There is an airport in my mom's city and she would pick us up, unlike some other parents whom I shall not name and it is not a sore spot at all with me that it should cost us so much money, tickets plus renting a car, to make a visit I do not even want to make (to the parents I shall not name) but whatever. We are flying to the nearby city rather than my mom's city because of frequent flyer miles or connections or something like that. Can't remember.

Anyhow. Because of flight delays, we do not get to my mom's until 2:00 a.m. Primo asks what the sleeping arrangements will be and I tell him that there is a guest room in the basement (which is finished and opens to a patio, so is it really a basement?) and the last time I brought a boyfriend home, I slept in the guest room and my mom put a trundle bed in the den and I assume she will do the same this time.

He grumbles, but I tell him to shush, that when you are a guest in someone's home, you go by their rules.

"Well what about my mom and dad wanting us to sleep in the same room?" he asks.

"Their rules are stupid," I counter. "Besides, the more conservative rule should win. Good manners mean you make people feel comfortable."

We argue about that for a while, as is our wont. There are times when I wonder why we are married, as there is almost nothing we agree on except bacon. But we do like each other and he kisses great, so there is that.

We get to my mom's and she is already in bed, so we go downstairs.

And the trundle bed is not in the den.

The trundle bed.

Is in the guest room. Near, but not next to, the twin bed under which it usually resides. There is a chocolate on each pillow.

Whoa.

What's this about?

The next morning, I ask my mother what's going on.

"Well," she says. "We're going to have everyone over here for Thanksgiving and we have to have it in the den, so I didn't want to have the bed in there. You know - more work to get it moved in and out."

"Mom!" I say. "Practical issues never stopped you before."

"I know," she sighs. "But I also figured you probably weren't sleeping in separate beds when you visit each other. And I did leave a bundling nightstand*** in between the two beds, so it's OK."



* Primo does not understand why I am so obsessive about writing and being read and about having comments. Oh, the joy of comments. Manna from heaven! Validation!

** Actually, my uncle Larry and aunt Rita's big annual fish fry at the lake.

*** I had to give Primo a hard time because he had never heard of a bundling board before. And he - a descendent of Puritans!