Parental wrongs

Although my parents live several states away, I am kept well-abreast of their disagreements because they tend to conduct them when I am on the phone with the two of them. They insist that they never argue when they are alone. No one, of course, can confirm this.

The latest of their spirited discussions occurred back on Mother's Day. They were both on the line with me, as usual, and were telling me which of my siblings had already called to extend their wishes to Mom. This is common among families in which there is more than one child, and it serves to cause the siblings to strive to be the first to call the parents on an important occasion. In families with strong sibling rivalry, this can lead, over time, to phone calls in the middle of the night, which in the case of my parents would likely catch them awake, but in the bathroom.

Anyway, my mother relayed that she had just talked to my oldest sister. My father, ever the Keeper of Truth, informed us that it had been Sister #3, not Sister #1.

My mother politely corrected him. It had been, indeed, Sister #1.

Equally politely, my father said it had not.

"I'm sorry," my mother said, "but you're wrong."

"Well, I'm sorry," my father said, "but you're wrong."

From here the politeness experienced a marked decline.

"How would you know?" my mother retorted. "You didn't even talk to her."

"I was sitting right next to you when you were talking to her. I could tell from the way you were talking who it was," he said.

Mothers may have eyes in the back of their head, but fathers are not without their little tricks -- they have ears in the back of their head, or somewhere in addition to the usual spot.

"How was I talking to her?" my mother asked.

"You -- you mentioned her trip!" he said triumphantly. "She just went to Tennessee," referring to Sister #3.

There was a pause. "I asked about her trip because she just went to Ohio," my mother said, referring to Sister #1.

I could imagine my father shaking his head. "You must have talked to her earlier in the week," he said.

"I should know who I'm talking to," my mother said in annoyance.

"Yes, you should, but you obviously don't," my father said. His tone indicated his belief that she was just steps away from a facility for those whose memory isn't what it used to be.

At this point I put the phone down to empty the dishwasher. I was in no danger of missing anything they said; it all came through quite clearly. When I picked up the phone my mother was saying, "We should just call her right now," meaning Sister #1, "and ask her if she just talked to me."

"Fine with me," he said. "But you're wasting your time."

"We'll see. Well, dear," she said to me, in the first piece of conversation that had been directed at me in several minutes, "it was lovely to talk to you, but we have to go now. Take care."

Quite irrespective of sibling rivalry, I now have an added incentive to be the first to call my parents on important occasions. Next time, one of my siblings can listen to my parents argue about who I was.