Feeding Dad

I get to hospital with my mother, having gone home in the afternoon for a couple of hours. As we enter dad's room (did I mention he is in a large room, designed to take one patient only?). My nephew Roey (pronounced ro-ee, my brother Benny's younger boy), a handsome 27 year old, tall and dark, thin as a rake, a natural born joker with a theatrical bent (watch this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dRTQk7ise3U.
after you've read this post!)... where was I? Oh, yes, it's early evening, dad just got his dinner. I hear Roey saying something like "I want you to eat all this pot of cheese", my dad barely able to answer back, but clearly not too keen to be bossed around (hey, that's my mum's job). I go ballistic: What the hell is this family's obsession with force-feeding the defenceless? I roar (quietly, it's a hospital after all). I swiftly remove the well-intentioned nephew from my dad's vicinity, and declare a buffer zone around him, now that I am here. My mother is by now settled down, one bag on the floor somewhere, handbag firmly clutched to her side, but before I manage to blink, that little old lady is by her man's side, spoon in hand, ready to go back to the good old days of force feeding of all the family's young. I am a control freak, I admit, but in the face of this maternal storm of instinctive, almost animalistic compulsion, well, I know when I am defeated. Her face glows with vitality almost forgotten. She is needed. She is useful. A fully functional Mother, and there are witnesses to vouch for it come judgment day. Is everyone looking? Good! He opened his mouth a little - perhaps to draw a breath. Wham! Spoon laden with that unwanted cheese gets in there. You want air? Well, you'll have to earn it first. We look on, mesmerised, as my mother keeps that spoon poised at lip level, inches away from his face, waiting for that twitch, the slightest movement, and in she goes, another successful ambush! So, from meekly declining one little pot of light cream cheese dad ends up having been fed two of the little things, along with absolutely everything else on the tray. Mission accomplished. Dad leans back in his bed, visibly uncomfortable, pathetically trying to release a burp, unsure it is safe to attempt one, lest he fails to manouver it around all the food that was shoved down his gullet just now. Mum sits back, a look of pure content on her face. She has done right by her man.
We fall silent, conversation muted to a whisper while this bizzare display of the most aggressive yet tender love unfolds before our eyes. We all have been there before, you know. That spoon, used to lie in wait patiently, relentlessly in front of all our little faces at some point in our lives. It was our nemesis, her Raison d'être. Dad never had to undergo this while he was young, healthy, confident and a justly proud man. Now there is nothing he can do, not even protest. I wonder: is what she is doing good for him? Has it been good mothering to us? Do we all thank her now? Resent her? Ridicule her?