Like Mother

For as long as I can remember I have harbored a deathly fear of three things; spiders, the execution of mathematical equations, and becoming my mother.

A prime example of freudian behavior, I grew up idolizing my father and resenting my mother. Maybe it's because my father would take us to Six Flags while my mother nagged us to vacuum the house. My father introduced me to the Beatles and Led Zeppelin. My mother tried to put prunes in my oatmeal. My father would make us watch films of great directors such as Stanley Kubrick, and Quentin Tarantino and gave us books by authors like Tolk, Robbins, and Vonnegut. My mother fell asleep during action flicks.

My father was the coolest. My mother was the bane of my existence.

I would like to note here, that between the ages of 13-17 I took this resentment and used it to sharpen my vicious vocabulary in the emotionally scaring battles that took place between my mother and I.  We all know woman are the great goddesses of things said between breaths that make you wish you'd never been born, but this emotional manipulation takes on new forms when between mother and daughter.

The things I have said to my mother are actually atrocious and I have forgotten most of them for good reason. I like to think we have grown out of the "epic fights" stage but even now, a simple phone conversation will start with "Hey just wanted to see how you were?"and five seconds later I'm rolling my eyes shouting "MOM WHY DON'T YOU EVER LISTEN! YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND."

It's like I HULK out on her. Who the hell was that talking to her own mother like that? Me? Oh, yeah. Me.

I should be ashamed. I should be disowned. But not by my mother.

You see, my mother has an uncanny ability to forgive. She is possibly the most self-less, caring, loving person I've ever met.  I mean, maybe everyone thinks that about their mother, but I'm talking from a third person perspective.  She is so damn good, and I mean that all encompassing. It's damn near saintly.

You would never know I shared that woman's DNA. Even she doesn't always believe I'm hers.

My mother, while I was home this past week, handed me this little journal she used to write in while she was pregnant with me. I sat down to read it, flipping through the pages of her barely eligible script. I stopped at this one entry written the day of my first birthday. She writes,

"I really want the best for you, and I want you to grow into the best person that you can be, whatever you decide to do in life be happy doing it. Be kind and considerate of others. Be unselfish and giving. Try to treat others the way you want to be treated. I'll try to teach you everything I've learned about life but I'm sure there will be times when you won't want to hear me tell you about things. You'll want to discover them for yourself. But I'll be here for you always when you need me. I hope that I can hep you in the struggles that we all have to encounter from time to time and I hope that I can be there for all the happy and momentous occasions that you have to look forward to. From the bottom of my heart. Happy Birthday to you!"

Tears came pouring out. I openly wept on my childhood bed, in my childhood room as it really sank in just how much my mother loved me. How as of late, I have grown into this kind of monster that writes about all her scandalous thoughts and actions on the internet and how she continues to be there for me with her undying support. Her love has been so strong and steady and unassuming that I think I have barely taken notice. But that's my mother. Never the one at a party to stick out with a loud mouth or obnoxious dance moves, but usually the one behind the scenes making sure the whole party runs smooth.

And here I am just tearing it up on the dance floor, not giving any fucks.

When I started this blog I have to say I was fully prepared to get a swift slap to the head. I knew that if I was going to do it right and spit the honest truth about where it was I had been and where it is I am going in this twenty-something post-grad stage things would come up I'd really rather the mom and pops not know. But now they know.

And instead of disowning me, they gave me support. Okay, so they flipped out for a second. But now I know I have their support. My pops even commented on the last publishing of the Lost Boys post

"Unfortunately, all these losers can never approach the all-around greatness of the first man in your life, your Daddy!"


Very true Dad.

I know I don't always say it, but Mom and Dad, I love you and I thank you for being the best parents a kid could have asked for. I know all those rules and "restrictions" you placed on me was for my own damn good and let's face it, I wouldn't have been a normal kid without having broken a few. At the end of the day though, I don't know another pair on this planet who could have better cared for and loved me and my big, fat mouth.

I used to say I got the worst of both worlds from you guys. But if I really think about it, I got the best.

So before this blog of mine continues further, I need them to know that I thank them for my life, I thank them for my overall nature, I thank them for that American Girl Doll I begged for who now resides in the attic.

Mom, I know you always say "you can't be my daughter" when I tell you about my liberal ideologies or that I just booked a flight to Asia on a whim, but I am here to tell you I most certainly can.

And I can only hope when I grow up, that I'll be a whole lot like you.




Thanks for giving birth to this Broken Record