September 22, 2007 3:15AM

Mister Hombre is sleeping quietly in bed. Which is exactly where I should be, but I’m not because I’ve already spent wasted three hours trying to fall asleep. There are a host of reasons why I can’t. Stars are improperly aligned, too hot then cold, cannot beat my pillow into submission, the Mister is gently snoring, SOMEONE is passing SBDs, and apprehension about Monday. None of the reasons are acceptable.

I’m struggling to identify myself as an adult. Yeah, I can usurp the title based on technicality. I can vote, drink, rent a car, have kids(okay, maybe not a good example since this ability has little to do with emotional maturity), and pay taxes. But these things don’t make me feel like a grown up. They are age defined rites of passage, which are optimistic of maturity, not guarantees. You could probably argue that marriage is a forum for grown ups, but it’s difficult to concede since my husband still chases me around the coffee table.

Continued: September 23, 2007 2:12PM

Monday, it’s my responsibility to be an adult, and I’m worried I won’t live up to everyone’s expectations. I’ll be accompanying my mother on a long awaited doctor’s appointment. In the past my sister has done this. Now, it’s my turn. I’m not complaining about responsibility. I don’t abandon obligations. I’m concerned about whether I will ask enough questions or the right ones. Deep down, I know that’s all I can do for her.

She attempted to make this appointment in May, they gave her a date in July, then the office postponed it until September. Knowing what a stubborn woman my mother is, knowing because I have half her genes, she probably NEEDED this appointment in January.

I can’t account for the different types of surgeries my mother has had. Maybe that makes me a thoughtless person. But I know she would rather me remember her strength and integrity than her medical history. She is in constant pain, whether sitting, standing, walking, or lying down. Watching her move makes me wince, but I know she does exactly what she feels she can, even at the risk of overdoing.

Part of me believes my sister is better suited to the task that awaits. Not that I don’t want to spend nine hours in the car with a nervous chain smoker listening to Yanni. My sister is very compassionate, if over-dramatic. She’s a better source of comfort than I am. I can’t see how my muttering “fuck” under my breath will be particularly consoling. Completely characteristic, but not the best demonstration of compassion.

I’m not presuming I know what the doctor will say, but I doubt that he will say anything my mother wants to hear. She is ready for better, more tolerable, and she deserves it. We all deserve to live free from physical pain, but life doesn’t always bend to your will, regardless of how stubborn you are.