Dear Mom,
In keeping with my once-upon-a-time rebellious streak you tell me I had as a two year old and my 30-year-old lust for nonconformity, I’m posting my mother’s day blog a day late. It has nothing to do with the fact that I napped on the couch yesterday and was later distracted by an American Greed marathon.
To say I’m thankful for you would be like saying I’m thankful that the asphalt on the highway supported my weight on my commute to work. I mean, I am thankful that it did, but duh. Obviously I’m thankful for that. And in that same exact way. Duh. Obviously I’m thankful for you. If it hadn’t been for a frisky night around Christmas time and a day of labor nine months later on LABOR day weekend, my past 30 years of existence would be nothing but a … well, just nothing. I wouldn’t be here.
You are my longest running relationship. If we were a married couple, I would be approximately 50 years old right now and you would be upwards of 70, assuming we married when I was 20, which was the going age for women in the era we would have been married in. The traditional 30th anniversary gift is a pearl, but since I’m not traditional, I’d probably give you a whole oyster. And you, your 70ish darling self, would be just delighted and then we would make out. I think that’s where this analogy derails. I am not making out with you. You’re my mother.
You taught me how to cook enough food for a small army and how to keep a house tidy and organized. Now, as your roommate, I have to remind myself of this, because you are not the most tidy of them all. I was playfully bitching about this to someone recently and he said, “Maybe she’s learned that those things really don’t matter in the long run,” to which I replied, “Blasphemy!” and pulled out my beloved vacuum. Apparently I still have some things to learn from you.
Sometimes we have fought. And over very important things. Like the PROPER way to cook fried rice, and the degree of coldness of the air coming out of the vents. Epic. We’ve driven away from each other mad, raised our voices and complained to our closest allies. Thank goodness stubbornness runs in the family because our determination to be friends.for.life.dammit is the thing that kept clanging us back together like a couple of alloy cymbals.
You give me compliments that match my awkwardness. “You have a nice … area.”
You’re on board with my crazy ideas. “Let’s live in a travel trailer!”
You respect my personal space. “No life-changing conversations before 10 a.m.”
You pick up your Sweet-N-Low packets.
For all those things, and a whole heckuva lot more … I thank you.
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