A Mother’s Day Tale

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I look like I might be on drugs here, but my mom is super cute!

 

Mother’s Day is tomorrow so all of you Mom day slackers need to pick it up! This is your official reminder!

Stop being a bad person and get out there to get your momma something!

You can complain all you want about your mom, but chances are she went through hours of pain/surgery/screaming/crying to bring you into this world so don’t make her put a hit out on you to take you out of it. Wait, is that just something my mom threatens?

Kidding. My mom loves me, I’m the favorite child.

Mother’s day can be difficult to prepare for! I was just watching a commercial on t.v. that told me I should buy my mom diamonds for Mother’s day and it left me considering if I truly loved her!

Out of all the Mother’s days I can remember one Mother’s day in particular that had my mom crying. I was in kindergarten and we made jewelry boxes for our mothers using a box, macaroni, and gold spray paint. Inside, our teacher glued a poem (I wish I could remember it) about the love of a mother. My mom still has that box. The tears it produced had me running around high fiving my siblings because at five I knew tears on Mother’s day means you are golden for the rest of the year! Am I right?

To celebrate Mother’s day here on the blog I thought I’d share with you all a mish-mash of experiences I’ve had with my mother that have led me to love her even more (eventually). Love you, Mom! And remember, you brought this upon yourself. This is all just for fun and I think you are the best Mom ever.

I don’t know if Mom has watched too many television shows or read too many parenting advice books, but when I entered middle school my mom was obsessed with the possibility that I was doing drugs.

These are my stories.

The First Incident: The Talk

I am infamous for my messy room. My bedroom is considered messy by all conventional measures, but I would argue I have a highly sophisticated organizational system that guarantees no one can steal anything of value because they would have to find it first. My mother would beg to differ.

Her favorite day time activity would be to clean my room without my knowledge so my room became a labyrinth of hung clothes, cleared surfaces, and a bed that was so well tucked I slept in one position all night. I hated it. I couldn’t find the pile of socks that I knew was in the corner of my room.

“Mom! Where is my pile of socks?!”

“Your sock drawer.”

“I have one of those?”

One night after I came home from school my mom was in the midst of cleaning her own room when she called me into her lair. Without trepidation I waltzed right in, took a seat on the bed, and watched Family Feud while she folded her clothes. When the t.v. turned off a rock settled into my stomach.

Silence in my childhood home means business. The t.v. is always on as background noise. That puppy goes off and the siblings duck and cover. I sat up and tried to count all of my trespasses in my thirteen years of life. “Mom, I’m really sorry I tripped Kate that one time in fifth grade but she was being super annoying.” I wanted to begin. This was like confessional. If I came forward with my sins without being prompted I would most definitely be forgiven.

No, this was more of an interrogation.

“I cleaned your room.” Mom began as the room turned black and white and she adjusted the light to shine in my eyes. She didn’t say anymore. She was waiting for me to sweat it out.

“Thank you, but I said I would do it myself.” Like I said every day. (Sorry Mom, I really should have cleaned up more)

“I cleaned your closet.” Now there was a definite look judging look she was giving me. Before I could respond she continued, “You know what I found in there?” From her pocket she produced a lighter.

I blinked. This wasn’t unusual. A number of lighters could be found around our house because both my parents smoked. I looked up at her and waited. The room was silent for a solid two minutes before I realized this was supposed to prompt a response. “A lighter. Okay.” My mom perceived my response as being calculated. I was utterly confused.

“In your closet. It was under some shoes. Why do you have a lighter in your closet, Lauren?”

“I don’t know. I guess it must have dropped in there.”

That wasn’t the response she wanted. “Why do you have a lighter?”

“I have candles in my room.” Elementary, my dear Watson.

We stared off for a few minutes.

“Do you smoke cigarettes?” “No.” “Pot? Lauren, are you doing drugs?” “NO!” “Lauren, you can tell me and we’ll talk about it. I won’t be mad.” (Why do parents think that by saying they won’t be mad we will actually confess?) “Mom, no! I don’t do drugs!” “Is it your friends, do your friends do drugs?” “You would smell it if we did! No, Mom.” “How do you know you could smell drugs?” “Because kids at school do it and t.v. says so and it’s not that hard to figure out!” “Don’t take that tone with me!” “Don’t tell me I’m doing drugs! I play basketball, I can’t do drugs!”

“Well, I’m keeping this lighter.”

“What if I have to burn a candle?”

“Ask permission first.”

“Great.”

“We’ll talk more about this later.”

We did. The same conversation replayed when my dad came home.

The Second Incident: The Accusation

“Mom, please come pick me up it’s half a mile and it’s so cold outside!” I let out a guttural noise as my mom refused to come pick me up. I was at my friend’s house at the head of the community. We lived off a side road. I had clocked it in the car once. The walk was a half mile. Half of it was up hill. The wind was blowing at about an ungodly speed an hour and the windchill was at hella-cold degrees.

I screamed on the phone until my mom hung up. I walked home.

Forty five minutes later.

I decided I was going to freeze out my mom just like the wind had done to me. I wasn’t speaking to her. This choice was also made easier by the fact that my jaws were frozen shut by the chill. Little did I know that while I was disrobing in the kitchen my mother was scrutinizing my every flaw.

My cheeks were chapped, my lips pale, my eyes were red, and my eyelashes glittered with tears.

“Why are your eyes red?” We had already fought on the phone and although time had passed we were picking right back up where we had left off.

“Because someone made me walk in freezing cold wind up hill to get home!” I shouted.

As calmly as possible she asked, “Are you doing drugs?”

The accusation was so ridiculous I stared at her without a response. Then, out of nowhere, I laughed. This was a joke.  So, I joked back, “Yeah, me and Courtney do drugs behind her the dumpster in front of her house.” I chuckled.

I’m looking for hot chocolate packets in the pantry and miss the look of shock on my mother’s face. But I hear her reply. “Courtney has a dumpster in front of her house?”

I turn, “What? Mom! Oh my god! No! I’m joking!”

“Then why are your eyes red and glazed?”

My first response I thought of was: because the cold turned me into a donut. But I went for the truth, “It was COLD and WINDY I walked through the tundra to get here!”

“Don’t take that tone with me. Now, you know we’ve had this talk before. You know you can tell me. I won’t tell your father. But, we do need to talk about this.” She was talking to the spaghetti she was stirring at this point.

I walked up to her and raised my hands.

“What are you doing?”

I put my hands on her face and she shrieked, pulling away.

“What are you doing?!”

“My hands are cold. They’re frozen like my EYEBALLS! I DO NOT DO DRUGS!” I don’t know how that argument ended, but I ended up standing in scolding hot water until I could feel my toes again.

My mother would continue to ask about drugs whenever I would answer a question about drugs, come in late, or be a little giddy after hanging out with friends. God bless her paranoid dedication because if I really had been doing drugs she would have found out.

I love my mom. I know that she was badgering in order to never lose touch with her kids. She wanted to be the first to know if we were screwing our lives up. She wanted to be there for me.

But DANG MOM, I was never on drugs! I’m not on drugs!

Anyway, I hope you remember these stories and they make you laugh.

I hope you, the reader, read these stories and they either make you appreciate your own mother more or you remember some silly argument you had with your own parent.

Whether you have a biological mother or not, there is someone in your life that cared enough for you to raise you up in the way you should go and loved you enough to make sure your underwear was right side out. That’s the person you should be thanking on Mother’s day. Don’t worry about diamonds or chocolate. Tell that person how much you appreciate the love and companionship from her.

Now, I gotta go before I get all teary eyed and my mother asks me if I’m on drugs again.

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