While scrolling through my phone yesterday I found this picture. I would be remiss if I didn’t share it, and admit to you that even my son has committed the sexy face photo sin. I’ll be in consult with my clergy for the next few days.
What does it say about me as a mom that after pulling up to an ATM to make a withdrawal, Luke (2 years old) shouts out the window, “Can I get some chicken and a Doctah Peppa?”
I can say without a doubt that this kid has NEVER had a Doctah Peppa in his life, but maybe he’s seen Mommy and Daddy place a few too many orders. I should’ve been ashamed, but instead I was a little proud of him for NOT ordering fries with that.
I actually thought on Wednesday morning, “I wish I had something to write about.” Lo and behold, the Lord doth provide manna from Heaven, because shortly after that thought, I received a picture message of my mother behaving badly from one of her cohorts. Off her meds and without a helmet. That’s how my mother was caught behaving at school this week. This probably clears up any lingering questions you had about me. Now you know, it’s genetic.
Now, truth be told, it was camou day at school and she was trying to prove that her lack of camouflage in no way handicapped her ability to blend in with her surroundings. In a way, she was right. Whatever the reason for her garden party, you have to admit that she makes a pretty cute butterfly bush.
Now, please do not contact me to ask me if my mom is using the bathroom in the photo, because A) it is crude and B) I was already told that, no she is not. I also don’t want to know that I incorrectly diagnosed the foliage in which she is housed. I’m a lot of things, but a master gardener isn’t one of them.
We abide by certain societal norms whether we realize it or not, e.g. pooping in private and elevator etiquette. Even the most hardened criminal, or craziest mental patient, will silently look upward upon entering an elevator. Trust me. I’ve been in elevators with all kinds of folks.
The general practice of getting on an elevator consists of standing as far away from the other occupants as possible, and only breaking the silence with, “third floor, please.” Well, this doesn’t jive with me. What better way to fill the awkward silence, than with an awkward conversation that everyone knows you won’t have time to finish.
I got on an elevator just yesterday en route to a doctor’s appointment. A stranger lady had gotten there before me which gave her the unspoken advantage of being in control of the buttons. I spoke through the disappointment. “Second floor, please.”
I noticed she was wearing a University of Alabama jacket and was carrying what looked like some sort of team posters. “Are you from Alabama?” I asked. “No, but my son goes to school there,” she replied. “I’m from Alabama myself.” I told her. She pulled out a poster and beamed,
“My son plays on the tennis team.” “That’s wonderful,” I told her. “You must be very proud. Which one is he?”
“He’s the one on the far left.” Her voice trailed off. “….with the hickeys all over his neck.”
I couldn’t hold back the laughter. “Boys will be boys,” I said, but she didn’t laugh with me. Nervously, I continued, “At least he’s having a good time.” Thankfully, the elevator doors opened and I managed to escape without having to endure any more of the obvious tension.
I walked away with another awkward elevator encounter under my belt and couldn’t help but wonder who else, but a mother, could muster such pride for their child in the face of hickey adversity? Who, I ask you?
