tapeworm, yes, diapers, no

After spending the weekend in a tiny high altitude Nevada mining town where all of the grown-ups were drunk and attired in period costume (a little like the renaissance fair, except with sidearms), where the highlight was a visit to a medical device museum in the basement of a Chinese restaurant, yesterday we retrieved our pets from my mother, who has now started to refer to herself as “grandma,” in the third person, in reference to the dog, as in, “grandma took you shopping for new toys at the PetSmart, didn’t she?” or “you are going to miss grandma reading to you, aren’t you,” and even, “your mama doesn’t cook for you like grandma does, does she?”
I texted my sister immediately. Filial consensus: this must stop right now.
There was silence in the car on the drive home, and it was not the comfortable, easy silence of a happy reunion with one’s pets. Instead it was a silence of deep discomfort. I know my mother is driven to behave this way believing as she does that for the indefinite future, her babysitting subjects will take heartworm medication and stalk houseflies. And all day, I’ve considered calling her to discuss our pending IVF plans (we haven’t talked too much about them since my father died), but the truth is, I would much rather just be pregnant, and not discuss the details with her. Mostly because in the past, she’s not exercised discretion in her conversations with others, and her lapses have resulted in near strangers asking me about my cervical patency and my husband’s semen analysis. Ok, maybe not near strangers, but I have certain cousins who don’t even know what my natural hair color is, for goodness sakes. Ones who have strong suspicions that infertility is linked to the consumption of organic produce, or maybe living west of the Mason Dixon line. I don’t know. If I don’t find a form letter, Dear Parents, We are undergoing IVF, please neither ask nor disclose details, on Google soon, I’m drafting one myself….