Nursing Home

Well, I guess this is growing up

I said Happy Mother’s Day to every woman I saw at the nursing home which prompted my sister to point out that I couldn’t possibly know that they were all mothers.

I acknowledged that I, of course, did not and could not know they were all mothers, but it’s like when someone says Merry Christmas to a Jew: even if it isn’t accurate it’s still a nice thing to say and it’s still a nice thing to hear. Niceties are always nice. 

If she were a more annoying sister, she would have also asked how I knew for a fact these were all women. But she didn’t ask that, because she knows the response is a rhetorical one: because they were all born in the 1930s and 40s, I'd say. Duh, I'd maybe add, if I felt like being annoying. It’d be like if someone asked how this senile and taciturn lot was able to functionally advocate for any gluten allergies when it came to mealtime. 

The answer is the same to both, being that it’s simply not a thing to them. These are elements of our reality and not theirs; gluten intolerance and gender identity are contemporary priorities and grand scheme luxuries. My grandma and her cohorts didn’t and couldn’t worry about gluten or gender dysphoria while they were escaping various war torn countries and trying to start a life in Canada. 

And back then, “starting a life” meant starting a family, which is another reason I posited that these were all mothers. 

I mean, who were all these people alive for, if not their children?