I’ll be the first to admit that being a mother is hard. But mothering my slightly demented mother is about to drive me off the rocky ridge that overlooks the Frio River. I’ve been telling Momma for years that her rugged Texas Hill Country ranch is too much for her. I also warned her about the dangers of climbing on ladders and using power tools. But she quit listening to me long before her good sense began to slip. And this time, my mother’s hard-headed shenanigans have landed her in the hospital. Every time I must fly back to Texas, I feel sandwiched between the guilt of saving Momma or saving my demanding legal career, a rebellious teenager, a struggling marriage.

It’s tempting to tell Momma that if she had dreams of being surrounded by family in her golden years, she shouldn’t have let her relationship with her only living daughter sink into the Frio. But I say nothing. She’s my mother, and I keep hoping if I work at it, I’ll eventually chip bits of love from our fossilized grief.

My mistake wasn’t admitting Momma into a temporary rehab center. It was underestimating my mother’s determination to maintain her distance from me. But stealing a car? Escaping rehab with two senior citizens? Even I didn’t see that coming.

Now Momma is missing. So I’m flying to Texas again. Not that she needs me to save her, but because I know she’s the only one who can rescue me.

The fictional story of the Slocum women is one many of us can relate to. Balancing the exhausting care of an aging parent with the demands of raising our own children is never easy. Sometimes laughing is the only way to keep from crying.