Mother’s Day

So, I’ve spoken to my mother twice this weekend.  Why on earth I thought I should call her back on Saturday, knowing I’d “have to” call her again today for Mother’s Day is beyond me…

Anyway.  I said something about how I came back from my trip early because I missed Emma too much.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get over that.”

I’m sorry, what?  First of all, I don’t want to “get over” that.
Damn, you’re right, thanks Mom, I just need to care about my daughter a little bit less!!

Ned pointed out, that’s some Lucille Bluth level shit right there.

Second… it seriously makes me question why in the world she even had children in the first place.

Well, at least I don’t have to worry that I’ll run out of things to talk to Sid about any time soon…

So, I was talking about Emma’s language development.  That is, I’m honestly a little concerned by the lack of it.  For reference, I asked my Mom about how old we all were when we started talking.  Which was an opportunity for her to launch into the story about how Middle Brother started talking the youngest, and even corrected her around Emma’s age.  He couldn’t say his name, so he called himself baby.  She introduced him to someone by his name, and he said, “No.  Baby.”  That was the first time he corrected her, “and he’s been doing it ever since.”
*sigh*  Thanks, Mom.

Then, I don’t even know how she got on the subject, but she told me a story about her boyfriend, Carl*.
Side note: she and Carl have been dating for… years.  If I had to guess, she won’t marry him because then Dad would be free from giving her money.  *sigh*

“Did I tell you the apple pie story about Carl?”
“No, but I’m guessing you’re going to!”
She laughed.  I guess that’s where my generally ha-ha-but-no-really sense of humor comes from.  I made her laugh, but I was totally serious that I didn’t really want to hear the story.  She told it anyway.  So now I’m going to tell it to you, faithful readers.

She and Carl were on a cruise with Aunt Lolly (a middle aunt), and Lolly’s husband, Will*.  I’m guessing they were eating Apple Pie at the time.  Will asks Carl what’s the best apple pie he’s ever had.  He says, “Oh, my neighbor, Mrs. Soandso!  She made a great apple pie!”  And Mom, pretty miffed, says, “What about the pie I made you.”  Ok, let’s be fair, I don’t think Mom is capable of miffed… her anger can go from 0-60 in 2.3 words.
Ok, so, specifically around cooking, we were always expected to tell Mom that her [whatever she made] was the best we’d ever had.  Much like we were expected to tell her she didn’t need makeup.

So I told her, “y’know, Mom, it is possible that someone might just be better at something than you.”  “No, you’re mistaken,” she said… and this was her ha-ha-but-no-really kind of joking.  She could blow it off by pretending she was joking about what she was saying, but I know she was dead serious.

News flash, Mom.  Your mashed potatoes are not the best I’ve ever had.  My Aunt on Dad’s side makes far better.  Seth makes far better.  Shit, even Betty Crocker makes better.

So, on the Mom note.  I had a good long chat with one of my cousins the other day.  Her Mom is the youngest of my mom’s sisters.  I get the very, very strong impression that our Moms have always been at odds because they are SO DAMN SIMILAR.  Holy crap!  But, either one of them would pitch a fit if you said that to them.  *sigh*

Throughout the course of the conversation, my cousin said something about how she had to call her mom twice a week.  As we were getting off the phone, she said she had to call her mom (since it was one of the two days of the week she always calls her).

A little while after the conversation, I thought, hmm.  Had to.  She “had to” call her mom twice a week.  It took me a long time to realize that I don’t “have to” do anything I don’t want to.  I mean, there are consequences… like, not showing up for work will get you fired… committing a crime will send you to jail… not grocery shopping will leave you hungry (or eating fast food)… you get the idea.  But there’s always a choice.

Don’t call Mom twice a week, she’ll get pissed.  And then what?

One of the things I’ve said about my mom, specifically with respect to her volunteering to share a hotel room with her sister for the baby shower, and then complaining about it… You don’t get to sign up to be a martyr.

And yet, I chose to talk to my Mom twice this weekend… and all I’m doing is complaining about it.
Oh.  Shit.

I’m incredibly grateful for a session with Sid tomorrow.
I’m also feeling… sad for the little girl that I was.  And adamant that I do NOT want to raise Emma anything close to the way my Mom raised me.


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