All About My Mother

“My mom is a neverending song in my heart of comfort, happiness, and being. I may sometimes forget the words but I always remember the tune.” ~Graycie Harmon

I took a sick day on Friday because things south of the border were a little unpleasant. I invite you to use your imagination on that one but if you require more of an explanation let’s just say that I had a good old fashioned colon cleansing brought on by reintroducing meat into my diet.

Having left a housing form for a conference out on my desk at work – with my credit card information in big, bold letters, I went to the office briefly and stopped by my mother’s office to finalize Mothers Day plans. The plans centered around where exactly to score some mac and cheese; Avenue A or Hattie’s. When your decision of where to get mac and cheese is is the biggest decision you have to make then you should consider yourself very lucky. Also plan on working out your core for an hour to maximize space and override calorie consumption.

When I told my mother I took a sick day and gave her that pitiful, take care of me mommy, look she waved her hand in the air to signal me to cease with the speaking. “I hate hearing that”.

“Hearing what…?”

“I hate hearing that you’ve taken a sick day.” She winces and puts her hands on her ears. The pain on her face reads UNBEARABLE.

“You know, I used to take sick days all the time and you never knew and now I take ONE and it KIIIIILLS you inside.”

“Heather Lynn” she says it in one giant exhale. “Just because we have those days doesn’t mean we need to use them all.”

“Then what are they for…?”

“You’re supposed to saaaave those days! For an emergency!”

“…”

“FOR MATERNITY LEAVE!”

I feel like as the older I get the more this bears repeating: I am not pregnant. I have no intention of getting pregnant anytime soon and pretty soon I’m going to have this cross-stitched on a t-shirt along with a photo of my empty uterus.

But that’s just the type of mother I have. I’m in no way prepared to explore the depths of sadness the past few months have brought to her or to me for that matter. But I am prepared to look at what others would see as the superficial; the tiny motherly things. Like worrying about my maternity leave in a decade and knowing just when to call someone an asshole and who exactly to fuck off. She’s not into tears or hugs or public displays of affection except if I ask for it first. But is the same woman who threatened to bang down a door because I wouldn’t speak to her.

There comes this point  and there will be no trumpets or fanfare but it will come and you, being the child, won’t know that it’s there. But there’s that moment when your parents imperfections and annoyances turn them infallible to…well…not.

And don’t tell my mother this but I like her so much better as the latter. As the imperfect. As the not.