It all comes out in the wash

“He’s a little boy,” is the logic my husband gives me for just about everything our child does.
This was his response to Cole deciding he only wanted to wear one shirt, day in and day out.
The same shirt.
Every day.
“When I was a little boy, I did that,” Lamar said. “I had certain things I liked to wear all the time.”
Yeah, when I was a little girl, I did, too. They were called shoes.
“He has to wear something other than that one shirt,” was my response.
It was ignored by everyone male in my house.
Now, that one shirt was not just any one shirt, mind you.
It was the Steven Universe shirt.
A simple shirt by design, a red tee with a big yellow star in the middle.
The day it arrived, he took it out of the package and put it on, not heeding my normal rule of washing everything first.
And there it stayed for God knows how long.
“Cole, let me wash it,” I would say on a daily basis.
“I don’t want to take it off,” he would tell me. “I love it, Mama. I had wanted this for so long.”
“It’s got to be washed,” I said. “It has pizza stains; when’s the last time you had pizza?”
He was not happy but he acquiesced.
The sacred shirt was washed.
And even though it was supposed to be pre-shrunk, it shrank.
“Oh no!” he wailed. “It’s ruined!”
Oh, dang. Now he’d never let me wash anything ever again.
He ran to his tablet to Google how to un-shrink shrunken clothes.
“Fabric softener,” he said between breathes. “Spray fabric softener on it to release the fibers.”
So we did. “Let’s pull it,” I suggested.
“Pull it?”
“If it works on control tops, it will work on a shirt.”
So we sprayed it some more and I took one end and he the other and we gently pulled.
It helped.
“It’s still not as long as it was originally,” he said. He knew this because he had another Steven
Universe shirt that came at the same time but was saving; he had compared the two when he got them and now had the red one on top, seeing the less than a millimeter difference.
“It will be OK,” I told him.
He frowned and slipped the shirt back on.
“It’s not going back in the dryer again. Ever,” he declared.
I returned to my daily begging to let me wash it; he refused.
The child will even put it on after he takes a shower.
“Cole!” I exclaimed. “Put on a clean shirt! That’s disgusting that you put that shirt back on!”
He sticks his chin out defiantly.
“No, it’s not. My shirt is clean. I don’t do anything to get dirty – I really don’t even need a shower. I haven’t even been outside this summer because I am scared of Zika!”
I sighed. I was in the midst of a battle I had zero strategy to fight.
I finally managed to wrestle the shirt from him one evening and promised I would hand wash it and let it air dry. And I did, putting it in the tub with a Tide pack and getting on my knees to wash it.
I suddenly had a very astute appreciation for the modern conveniences of washers and dryers.

Hours later, I heard him bemoan that somehow, it still shrunk.
“That’s not possible!” I said.
He leveled a disappointing stare at me. “Well, it is. I’m never washing my lucky shirt again.”
How had this shirt somehow become lucky? I wondered.
“He’s a little boy, you just don’t understand because you are a mama,” Lamar said. “Little boys have lucky shirts, don’t like taking showers, and like gross things. He will change soon enough.”
I wasn’t sure about that; his father was in his 50s and hadn’t evolved that much.
I wasn’t going to fuss with him.
I just knew that shirt needed to be washed and on a regular basis.
Granted, I knew his fear. I had a lovely long, white Ralph Lauren sundress one summer that made me look thin even though it had pockets. I probably would have worn it on my wedding day, I loved it so much. I didn’t even wear it that often, because, well…it was white. Me and white clothes are a recipe for disaster and usually mean I spilled everything permanent on it.
But one day, I asked Mama to wash it.
Mama, the grand poobha of laundry. The woman cannot cook to save her life – or ours – but she can make everything smell April fresh and soft and fluffy.
My dress mysteriously disappeared and Mama even tried to gaslight me into believing I had never had a white sundress.
“I don’t recall such a dress,” she said through her Virginia Slim fog.
“Are you sure? You fussed about paying $80 for a dress I could only wear a few months out of the year.”
She didn’t even flinch.
“I fuss about a lot of your overpriced clothes,” she said. “You always like those hoity toity things.”
“Uh-huh. Well, you washed it about three weeks ago and I haven’t seen it since.”
One day, I found it, or what remained of it rather, under the kitchen sink.
It was in tatters, knotted together.
Mama had put bleach in the laundry, thinking it would help keep the brightness of the white but instead, it had eaten through the fibers and turned it into what looked like a giant cat toy.
The fact it was in a bag, shoved in a bucket in the very back and covered with a cutting board was proof the crazy redhead had hid her crime.
I sat in the kitchen floor and cried, and this time it wasn’t because I thought my Mama was trying to poison me with her cooking.
I recounted this story to my own child, hoping he would know I understood where he was coming from and that I would take care of his shirt.
I believed that one day he would trust me to wash his favorite lucky shirt again.
Finally, finally, he peeled off the shirt and handed it to me.
“It’s time,” he said solemnly.
Into the tub it went, with another Tide pack. I had to scrub stains of things out that were unidentifiable, ground in and possibly organic in nature.
I didn’t ask.
When you finally get to wash the sacred shirt, you do so free of judgment -and questions, because somethings, you just don’t want to know.
But the sacred, lucky shirt was clean.
At least for a little while.

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The annual return transit of the Pumpkin Spice Latte

My favorite season is fall. In fact, I wish it could be fall all year.

Bonfires, cooler weather, the leaves changing to burgundy, rust, and gold, and -even though I could care less – college football.

Despite all the fall things that bring me great joy, there is one thing that has wormed its way the seasonal landscape that makes me cringe: pumpkin spice lattes.

And everything flavored pumpkin spice.

Normally, I like fall flavored things.

Cinnamon, cardamom, clove and nutmeg are some of my favorite flavors.

When it comes to scents, my house smells like fall year round.

But when it comes to my taste buds and particularly my coffee, I just can’t do the orange colored concoction.

No, just no.

I tried one once, after one of my favorite baristas suggested it instead of my standard breve.
It was years ago but my taste buds have not yet recovered.

For me to say something is too sweet is rare – but this was too sweet.

I made the mistake of taking the lid off and seeing the orange color. The only acceptable colors for coffee are black and a cream-lightened version of that.

The atrocities of pumpkin spice have spread to other things like a flavored virus.

Candy, cereals, yogurt -everything now has a pumpkin spice spin to it.

Even ice cream.

Mama got the ice cream last year.

The thought of it made me cringe.

The texture alone coupled with the taste would make me gag.

“It’s good!” Mama declared.

I told her there was absolutely no way PSL ice cream could be good.

“It’s the best stuff ever,” she argued.

I reminded myself her taste buds were old and she is a terrible cook so this may taste good to her.
This is also the woman who thinks bologna should be its own food group.

Months later, we went to see her. Mama was pushing her inedible fixings on us yet again.

She ran down her list: boiled eggs, some kind of half-cooked frozen chicken wings, tenders, or nuggets with various types of breading, lettuce she shredded and put in a bowl, thusly calling it a salad (nothing else with it – just lettuce), and something burnt.

She rounded out the list with, “And, I’ve got pumpkin spice ice cream for dessert.”

“You got another thing of that?” I asked.

Mama tensed slightly. “No, it’s the same one.”

“The same one?”

She nodded.

“Don’t you think it may be freezer burned by now?”

“Oh, good,” she said. “That will hopefully kill the flavor.”

“Why didn’t you eat it? You loved it when I first talked to you.”

Mama thought carefully. She had sung the praises of pumpkin spice far too loud and a wee bit too early it had seemed.

“Have you ever had something that at first seemed really good? Like the first time you had it, it was delicious?”

I had. But the first pumpkin spice anything was not it.

“The first bowl tasted so good. The second one, was not as good. And the third one…was gross. I think I hit the mother load of pumpkin.”

I couldn’t imagine how much a mother load of pumpkin would be.

“Why haven’t you thrown it away if you aren’t going to eat it?” I asked.

“That tub was a small fortune! I am not throwing it away!” she replied. “Are you sure you don’t want to try it?”

“Well, after that appealing pitch, I can’t see why I wouldn’t but I am still gonna take a hard pass,” I told her.

She tried to get Cole to try but his mama didn’t raise no fool.

And here we are fast approaching pumpkin spice season. Not fall, not football season but pumpkin spice season.

I keep hoping there will be a pumpkin spice shortage but alas, there has not been. At least not yet. I’m sure if there was, it would be the end of civilization as we know it.

We’d have to go back to eating other seasonal things like caramel apples and S’mores like a bunch of savages.

And even so, Mama would still have that tub of ice cream.

The Undergrad Continuum (8/17/2016)

The last few days, I have watched friends I graduated high school with ready their children for college.

I am not sure how this is possible since 1991 was really only 5 years ago so this seems to defy the laws of time.

But there they are, dropping off kids at their dorms hours away and into impending adulthood.

And it dawned on me: they are still babies.

Sure, when I graduated high school, I was ready to take on the world.

I think it mainly stemmed from being young and foolish enough to think I was invincible and that I was going to solve the world’s problems.

I knew everything, too.

Lord, have mercy at the depths and expanse of my omnipotent knowledge or lack thereof.

“I’m not quite sure why you going to school; you know everything,” Granny snorted one day.

I really thought I did.

So much so that I dropped out after my first quarter of paralegal studies because the classes started too early.

“Who can think that cussed early in the morning?” I asked.

Granny was furious; Mama, said nothing at first, until she got the phone bill. It was $8,926,274.12.

Or at least you would have thought it was given the hissy fit the crazy redhead pitched.

“Since you are taking some time to find yourself, you can find a job in the meantime,” she announced with aplomb one afternoon.

“I am your child; I should be able to reflect and be introspective on what I want to be when I grow up,” was my response.

“I can’t think of any better way to find out what you want to be than to learn what you sure don’t want.” She tossed the paper on my bed. “There’s the want ads; find yourself a job by the end of this week or the phone will be thrown out.”

She always struck a low blow, threatening my phone, my life line to the outer world beyond the graffiti walls of my bedroom.

I sighed. I had to get a job.

How was I going to find myself if I had to get a job?

But find one I did, waitressing during the lunch rush at a local restaurant.

When I complained about being tired and how customers were rude and demanding, Mama just asked me if I was ready to go back to school.

“I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be. It’s not fair to make an 18-year-old figure out what they want to be the rest of their life,” I told her, stomping into my room.

The next phone bill was $9,308, 237.11. (This was when it was long distance to call everywhere except your city and my future ex-husband was at school, 2 hours away.)

“You need to get another job,” Mama said, tossing the paper on my bed again.
“What!? Why?” I whined. “I can’t work another job!”

“Then get one full time job,” she said. “You only work part-time and aren’t in school; you can get another one. Or I will yank the phone out of the wall.”

So I got another job. And another.

I think at one time, I had about 37 part-time jobs.

I was exhausted.

“I’m going back to school,” I whined one day. “This working thing is killing me.”

“Have you figured out what you want to be when you grow up?” she asked.

Oh, heavens no. But I had a clear idea of what I didn’t.

The thought of sharing a communal shower and a room smaller than the one I grew up in did not appeal to me, so I commuted four days a week for four years.

When I graduated that sweltering hot day in June, I just knew I was officially grown and ready to take the world by storm. Before, I thought I was ready; now I was.

I walked out of the Macon auditorium and it hit me: I was really still just a baby.

I didn’t even know how to turn on utilities, how was I going to take on the world?

I was scared and didn’t know what I was doing but again, armed with foolish bravado I thought I could do anything. I’d figure it out, right?
Thankfully, I had the fallacy of my youth on my side to help cushion my errors.

But, it was that year off that helped me grow the most.
Mama taught me the most important lessons of all; she knew working some hard jobs would be good for me, would teach me how to deal with the public, and help me figure out what I wanted to be. She didn’t let me just wallow in my own ruminations either; she is not one to entertain apathy.

She let me think I knew everything while she quietly showed me I didn’t.

She also knew it would keep me off the phone so the bill didn’t go up into the billions.

As I think of all the college freshmen starting school this month, I think they have the whole world ahead of them and I envy that time in their lives.

It’s a scary, exciting, exhilarating time, and I am sure a few probably feel like that they know everything, like I did.

And at least, briefly, for a while, they will.

 

The 5 0’Clock Train May Be Temporarily Delayed (6/15/2015)

We had somewhere to be at 5:30 p.m.

Our destination was approximately 20 minutes away, but for some reason, my husband decided he needed to hurry me along.

“We need to leave in 15 minutes,” he announced.

I was putting on my makeup in my office/dungeon of girliness/former hiding place of candy.

He poked his head in.

“Did you hear me?”

I paused, eyeliner in my hand. Did he not know that a kohl eyeliner could double as a mini-spear?

“Daddy….” Cole cautioned from the couch in the living room. “Don’t make her angry.”

“I heard you,” I said, giving him a warning glance.

“I don’t want to be late. We may have to park and walk a block or two, so we need to make sure we leave with plenty of time.”

“Daddy…..” Cole said, a sharp whistle sounding as he took in air.

I gave him a heady stare until he backed out and then returned to my makeup.

“I don’t like being late,” he said again from the other room.

“We won’t be late,” I said.

“We will be if you don’t hurry up, you are still in your robe.”

“I can get ready if you would stop fussing,” was my reply.

“I am not fussing, I am simply telling you we need to leave in 10 minutes and you are not even dressed.”

It’s impossible to apply eye liner or eye shadow when you are fussing with someone. I was going to be late and you know what? It was his fault.

This, from the man that when I tell him I want to go somewhere by a certain time, will make me late. Normally, Cole and I are sitting in the van, wondering if he decided not to go and just laid down. Or, he will say he’s ready to go, then can’t find his wallet, his glasses, the keys, or he needs one more drink of water.

He also is good about walking all the way out to the van, where Cole and I are sitting, normally sweltering from the heat, to announce he forgot something and go back in. “He’s not coming back, is he?” Cole will ask from the back seat. Sometimes, I wonder myself. We spend an eternity sitting in the van ready to go before his daddy finally gets out there.

“Five minutes.”

I couldn’t find the pants I wanted to wear. Where were they? I went in the bedroom and they were not where I had last put them.

I didn’t want to wear jeans – it had to be cooler in the shade of Hades than it was on this evening.

Should I wear a dress, or would that be too dressy?

No, no dress. Never a dress.

What in the world was I going to wear?

“Go get in the van,” I heard Lamar tell Cole.

“I hope you aren’t going to Ray Barrone Mama,” Cole said, heading out the door. “That will not end well, you know…”

He was referencing the episode where Ray left Debra when she got the curling iron stuck in her hair and went to the awards ceremony without her. Here was my child, wondering if his own mother was about to get left behind.

I heard the van crank. “He better not leave me,” I muttered under my breath.

I found a pair of dress pants and a shirt I didn’t really like anymore but it was short sleeved and didn’t require me finding some tank top to wear underneath it – that’s another thing. Since when did every woman’s blouse require another shirt underneath it to wear? Geesh.

I started to slip on my heels then thought if we were late and I had to walk I’d be better off in flats, so I slipped on sandals.

I paused to make sure I could still hear the van outside; I did.

I grabbed my phone and my purse, made sure Doodle was behind the couch, Pumpkin was on it, and Ava was secure on her spot on the bed.

I ran out the door, and saw Lamar sitting in the driver’s seat, window down. Even with his sunglasses on, I could see his annoyed stare.

I realized I didn’t even have on my earrings or my necklace but locked the door anyway.

“Five minutes after 5,” Lamar said as I climbed in my seat.

“You’re going to make me not want to go anywhere with you, you know,” I said. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

He set his mouth in a tense line and backed out.

“We are going to be late,” he stated.

I rolled my eyes and adjusted my AC vent.

A few miles down the road, just as we approached a stop sign, a truck took the turn too fast and hard, and came into our lane, barely having enough time to get control. Lamar was thankfully able to avoid us being hit.

“Wow! If we had left a few minutes earlier, he would have hit us,” Lamar said.
“So Mama being late was a good thing!” Cole said, patting my shoulder.

“Even when Mama’s late, she is always on time,” I said.

We rode in silence the rest of the way.

And we got there, with three minutes to spare.

That Mama’s Intuition (5/25/2016)

There was no getting past Mama.

The woman claimed she had eyes in the back of her head, which led me to dig furiously through her hair while she slept when I was a small child.

But Mama had a keen sense of when I was doing something I shouldn’t, was in trouble, or just all around in a pickle, often of my own doing.

I spent most of my earlier years wondering how my Mama knew what I was doing or more accurately, had done, outside of her presence.

And this was years, decades even, before we had the technology we have now.

No, Mama had her own GPS system that ran on what she called Mama ESP.

Once, when I was heading out with a friend, Mama cautioned us we better not be cruising with any boys, without looking up from her crossword puzzle.

“Oh, we won’t,” my friend replied.

A few hours later when we pulled back into the parking lot to pick up another friend’s car at the Winn-Dixie, there sat Mama, on the hood of her car, like a little skinny red-headed angry hood ornament, breathing fire from her Virginia Slim 120.

She tried to pull me from the backseat, the first of many occasions where she would try to pull me out of a moving vehicle.

“You lied!” she had screeched as she continued to try to pull me through the window. I am not entirely certain the window was even down but rather, she was executing something straight out of “The Matrix,” only about 20 years earlier.

I was embarrassed and more accurately, scared. I had been caught in a lie by the red-headed dragon herself. And I think she was going to do more than just put me on restriction or hide my phone.

Somehow, somehow, one of my friends saved me and used some Jedi mind trick to convince Mama to let me go home with her. I am still not sure how this happened, as Mama didn’t really like her, but the girl had pulled off a “This is not the droids you’re looking for” move with such aplomb, I would have thought she was Obi Wan Kenobi in the flesh.

When I got in my friend’s car, I looked at her and said, “I don’t know how you managed that, but thank you. You just spared the skin on my hinney.”

My friend shook her head, “I just don’t know how she knew where we were. It’s like she’s psychic or something.”

Or something.

I asked Mama the next day how she knew where I was. She was barely speaking to me and giving me the silent treatment which meant she scowled at me with disappointment most of the day.

“I have my ways,” was all she said.

“What ways?” I asked.

Was it smoke signals she sent out from her Virginia Slim?

Did they go to other chain smoking mothers to keep a lookout for daughters with rebellious attitudes, big hair, and too much makeup? And boyfriends who could be described pretty much the same way?

Whatever it was, she knew where to find me, and where I had been.

On a few occasions, this internal tracking system came in handy in circumstances that didn’t involve me being caught in a lie.

Once after going to a friend’s house to sit out by the pool, I suffered a pretty severe sunburn. I was miserable. I also may have had a slight case of sun poisoning. I managed to whimper my way through a late night run of “Pretty Woman” at the theater, but only because I was promised extra butter on my popcorn.

I wouldn’t dream of asking my friends to drive me 30 minutes back home; I had to be a trouper and tough it out. Besides, wasn’t this how you got a good base tan?

But all I wanted was my Mama.

She had never been to my friends’ house, and it was late; I couldn’t ask her to drive all the way out there after she had worked until 2 in the morning.

I was so busy whimpering I didn’t see the headlights of Mama’s car as they flooded the driveway at my friend’s house. Even though it was late, Mama drove out there to get me.
She gave me an emphatic gasp when she saw how burned I was. “Oh, dear,” she began. “I am so glad I came on to get you; you may need to go to the emergency room.”

“Did someone call you?” I asked.
Mama shook her head, gently leading me to the car. Everything hurt. I felt like I was overcooked and even my hair felt extra crispy.

“No,” she said.

“Then how did you know?….”

“A mother just knows,” she said.

She never told me how she knew, or how she found my friend’s house in the dark when she had never been there before. This was decades before cell phones with Siri and navigation, which even now, I am sure my now fluffy, slightly darker haired smoke-free dragon would mess up.

She took me home where it took me a week and a lot of vinegar baths from Granny to survive the burn.

I still don’t know how she figured all these things out.

Just the other day, I asked Cole something, very direct when I already knew the answer.

He gasped in horror. “How did you know that, Mama? Are you violating my privacy? I have rights you know!”

I hadn’t violated any rights.
I was a mother.

And some things, we just know.

I am my Mama’s mother’s granddaughter (5/11/2016)

I swore when I was a child – probably more a teenager, really, as they know everything – that I would never be like my Mama.

No, that skinny fire-breathing redhead was crazy.

She thought the silliest things were life-hazards, when riding in a Monte Carlo with her smoking and the windows rolled up was probably more hazardous to my health than me roller skating.

She was strict. More specifically, “controlling” was the word I used from age 15-23.

I thought her sole purpose was to make me a completely uncool spinster.

“Your mama is so nice,” my friends would say.

They would come over to talk to Mama about things they didn’t feel comfortable talking to their own mamas about.

This is the woman who would randomly show up at school in the middle of the day to peek in my class to make sure I was okay.

The woman who would point at me, then the floor, commanding me to come there so she could ask me if I had lunch money or not.

And my friends came over to ‘chill with my mom?’

“Why do my friends come over here and talk to you?” I asked her once bewildered.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Is it so hard to imagine that I am maybe a nice person and they want to talk to me?”

What in the world did this woman possibly have to talk about?

Other than her heedings and warnings about everything being dangerous, including air, she didn’t have a lot to say.

“What do you say to them?” I asked.

Mama shrugged again. “Nothing really.”

I approached Granny with this dilemma.

“You wanna know why your friends come over here to talk to your Mama? It’s because she’s quiet. She actually listens to them,” the old gal said.

“She does what?”

“She listens.”

I reckon Mama has always done that. She is quite the good listener, especially if she is not injecting her listening with her words of warning.

“So my friends come over here because she listens? Don’t I listen?”

Granny shook her head.

“No, you too busy telling everyone what your opinion is like they care. They don’t want to know what you think of their boyfriends. Knowing you, you’ve already said it. They want someone that’ll listen to them and let them figure it out on their own.”

The old gal evidently missed the irony of her statement.

She spent a goodly portion of her time expressing her unrequested opinion on everyone along with her judgements. If Granny disagreed with what someone was doing, instead of trying to be a compassionate person as Mama does, she told them what she thought, holding nothing back.

And Mama was quiet. I think some folks may have thought she was aloof but she was really just more reserved and observant.

Granny, on the other hand, would not shut up.
“I’m shy and don’t feel comfortable talking to a bunch of strangers,” she said – an outright lie—out of the blue one day.

“I bet the greeter at Walmart wished that were true; you spent 15 minutes the other day discussing your hysterectomy with them.”

“They asked how I was, and I told them,” was her response.

Granny believing she was shy was almost comical. A bull in a China shop that had been poked with a fire was more subtle than this woman.

And she didn’t feel comfortable talking to strangers? She never met a stranger. She would go up and start talking to someone like she had known them for years.

I think when she worked in a sewing plant, she talked so much they had to move her away from one of her best friends. That didn’t work; she just started talking to whoever they moved her next to.

Mama was the quiet, compassionate empathizer and then there was Granny, the chatterbox full of judgements she felt needed to be shared.

Oh, sweet son of a biscuit eater.

I’m not like my Mama at all.

It’s worse. Much, much worse.

No One Loves You Like Your Mama (5/4/2016)

As I’ve grown older, several truths have grown more apparent.

One, don’t put overconfidence in a pair of control top panty hose.

Don’t believe what someone tells you, and be hesitant to believe what you see.

But the most important one is that no one loves you like your mama.

Mama was probably the original helicopter mom, hovering over me in her overprotective way.

I had back surgery when I was 12 years old to correct a severe curvature in my spine. I was nervous, as any kid would be, mainly because I wasn’t sure what to expect. And it seemed like a pretty big deal – the surgery would take at least 8 hours and the hospital stay was projected at 3 weeks – but to my 12-year-old self, I was mainly worried about my cat.

Mama may have been scared, but she never told me. Those words never left her lips. If anything, when I would get scared and ask if I would be okay, she comforted me and told me I’d be just fine.

In the hospital, the night before the surgery, I looked over and realized Mama was sitting there in the dark, just watching me, quietly. I think she was praying.

“Mama?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want to die — I am scared.”

Mama was quiet for a moment, maybe to not let her own fear come across. “You will be just fine, I know it. You’ve got the best surgeon and I know God will bring you through this.”

I went to sleep and the next morning, had the surgery.

Over the next few days, Mama never left my side.

Well, with the exception of going up to the roof of Georgia Baptist to a spot she found to smoke.

I would open my eyes and there she was, standing over me, stroking my hair, and checking on me.

“Mama,” I began, my voice hoarse.
“Yes?” she leaned in to hear me better.

“Quit hovering over me.”

This would become an ongoing theme between us from then until now. “You’re hovering,” I will caution. “No, I’m not,” she will counter.

“Yes, you are.”

“Okay…maybe I am a little. I want to make sure you are OK.”

When I was in my twenties and even my thirties, this was annoying.

Now, I get it.

I do.

I worry, I try to protect my only child from all the dangers that life can throw at him, and I hover.

I hover so well I should be some kind of stealth military helicopter.

I can tell by my child’s very countenance a myriad of emotions: if he is upset, disappointed, worried, sad, hurt.

And I go into hover mode to do what I can to bring him out of it and to make it better.

He’s 11, so it’s not too terribly annoying right now.

I just want to make sure he is safe, and happy, and knows he’s loved.

Something that no matter how old he gets, I will want for him.

Just as I am 43 and my Mama is still hovering.

I made the mistake of telling her the other day how bad I was feeling because of my allergies.

She was immediately worried and told me to go to the doctor.

I told her I’d be fine and it was nothing a good rain and a couple of Benadryl couldn’t fix.

She wasn’t sure.

“Do you want me to come up there to take care of you?”

I assured her I was good.

She didn’t believe me, naturally, and her morning texts continually asked if I was better.

“I just worry about you…”she said forlornly, her voice trailing off.

I know she does.

For a mama, worry is just another way to love.

My husband may take care of me, make me tea, or draw me a hot bath but Mama is the one who will worry when things are serious.

And when things are serious, she will move heaven and earth to make things better.

She will tell you she’s coming to stay with you for a week, to give you the chance to catch your breath.

She will call you a dozen times a day to make sure you are okay when she can’t come take care of you and doesn’t understand why you think she is over-reacting.

She means well, really, she does. She just wants her baby, her Kitten, to be safe.

Because no one, no one loves you like your mama.

When All Else Fails (4/20/2016)

Do you know what having the title ‘mother’ means?

Don’t think it means you are adored and revered – let me stop you right there.

No, it means you are the one whose advice, warnings, and wisdom is completely disregarded.

Whatever comes out of your mouth is ignored, causes involuntarily eye-rolling, and may cause stomach upset.

It’s more harmful to your health than the newest pharmaceutical.

“Don’t do that, you are going to get hurt.”

I think I wake up saying that some mornings.

“But –”

“No. No buts, just do what I say.”

Of course, I don’t know anything. I mean, what could a mother possibly know?

I can see the impending accidents that can occur and despite having no working knowledge of physics, can ascertain at what speed and velocity something will ricochet through the air to make contact with one’s head.

Maybe that’s mother’s intuition but who knows? That’s just as ignored as everything else.

“What don’t you put that up to keep it safe?” I ask.

“It’s alright.”

The next day: “Oh, man…that’s ruined…”

Really?

“Mama…can you get me another one…”

Unfortunately, no; that was the last one.

“Oh, man….”

“Didn’t I tell you?….”

Just the beginning of this phrase causes the rest of what comes out of my mouth to be muted.

Don’t try finding sympathy in the company of your own mother. If she is anything like mine she can remember every time you ignored her heedings. Mine will even side with my child just to pour salt in the wound.

“You never listened to me so why should he listen to you?”

“Maybe because I am right?”

Mama sighs, an exasperated, slightly dramatic sigh. “I am usually right, too, you know.”

“So far it hasn’t happened.”

Of course, when I was younger, I never thought for one moment she could be right. She was far too full of rules: telling me what to wear, what time I needed to be home, to watch what I was doing, and not stay up late on a school night. “If you know something is due, make sure you do it when you get the assignment – not the night before it’s due.”

I ignored her then, and, yes, I ignore her now.

“Make sure….have you…did you?”

Her statements are all peppered with constant warnings and advice.

“I am an adult, you know. I can do this,” is my retort.

A few days later – sometimes, it’s not even days but hours, actually – I am on the phone with her, asking her how to fix it.

“Can I ask you something? Why didn’t you listen to me to begin with?” she will ask.

How can I tell her that I am not supposed to listen to her? I am pretty sure it is written somewhere that while a mother can be adored and cherished, she is not necessarily listened to.

“Did you ever listen to Granny?”

She didn’t respond.

Granny would give Mama many words of wisdom, none of which my mother would take.

“She’s just being bossy and controlling,” is how Mama described the advice.

In hindsight, however, Granny was right.

She was right about a lot of things, like wearing a slip, even if you think you don’t need one so everyone else won’t see all your glory; never buying cheap shoes; and always making sure you look presentable before you head out, lest you want to run into everyone you know in town.

She was right and, as much as I hate to admit it, Mama is right about a bunch of stuff, too.

Having a son does increase the validity of what I may say, but not by much. I can tell my child what to do or, more accurately, not to do, and he will listen in as much as he feels applies to him and what he wants to do at that given time.

Our conversation usually follows a rhythm of me telling him not to do something and him declaring he knows what he’s doing.

This is typically followed by a thud or the sound of something crashing. “I’m alright,” he will call out, not too convincingly.

“Didn’t I tell you?…”

“Yes, Mama, you did…”

I sigh as I survey the damage. Wood floors can create pretty immediate bruising.

Didn’t I just tell him not try to run-slide in socks?

Did he listen?

Of course not.

When all else fails, just do what your Mama told you.

Begrudgingly Holding onto a Grudge (3/30/2016)

The other day, the unthinkable happened.

I ran into someone I hadn’t seen in a while and just like Ouiser Bodreaux did with Drum Eatenton, I smiled at them before I caught myself.

“Mama,” Cole whispered as we hurried past them, “I thought you didn’t like them.”

“I don’t,” I said, quieting him before he could say anything else.

Nursing a grudge is something the women in my family are able to do with a fierceness.

Granny’s version was swift and without yielding.

Mama’s grudge could be just as immediate but she had her moments of compassion and second chances, to which my grandmother would say: “You wasting time and energy, Jean. Go on and get to hatin’.”

Granny often had fairly valid reasons for her grudges, or spites, as she would often call them. She had one sister that she swore had been out to get her since birth and she may have been right. The two seemed to have lived to annoy each other.

“I reckon I love her because she’s my sister, but it don’t mean I like her,” Granny said once, recounting how her sister, Bonnie, had always wormed her way out of chores and leaving Granny to do double duty.

Granny carried that grudge long after her sister died and is probably still nursing it in the great beyond.

Mama once got her feelings hurt when we went to see someone who wasn’t home, after they said they would be.

As much as I tried to tell her maybe something had come up or they had just ran out, Mama wouldn’t hear it.

Instead of looking at the years she had known the person, she took one isolated incident and turned it into a great big grudge. She grew considerably cool towards the person, not speaking to them for years.

“They knew we were coming,” she would say as her defense.

“Mama, mistakes happen. Maybe they got the day wrong, or the time. You didn’t say, ‘We’d be there at 3:30,’ you just said, ‘Hey, we may stop by.'”

She would not listen to a word I had to say.

Her grudge was set and it was staying that way.

Grudges, according to Mama and Granny, were a form of self-preservation, shielding us from those who had wronged us.

A grudge, when properly held, could be passed down through generations with Shakespearian depth to the point the original cause of the grudge had been long forgotten.

Or at the very least, blown way out of proportion.

So there I had stood, listening to this person yapping away like they had not made my life a living purgatory.

Mama still loathes this person to this day.

“If your grandmother had known how they treated you, she would still be spiting them from her grave. Maybe even haunt them,” Mama said when I told her I had run into this person.

Despite Mama’s disdain for this person, she is also the one telling me to forgive or try to see the other person’s perspective. A bit rich considering she is still holding out a spite because she was asked to have Granny make something for a covered dish supper once.

“Not me, mind you; they didn’t want me to make anything. They wanted Granny to and that’s the only reason I was invited – to get Granny’s cooking!”

Even though I had planned all kinds of things to say to this person, not the first one rolled past my lips.

I had smiled and nodded, instead of telling them everything I had thought, and everything I had said about them over the years.

And there had been plenty, believe me.

“Mama, why were you nice to them?” Cole asked me later.

I thought of how maybe this person’s life wasn’t what they had wanted it to be and they had dealt with their own battles over the years.

I had heard a few things from mutual acquaintances over the years and yes, there had been those passing thoughts that maybe karma was kicking their tail.

Even though I thought it, that doesn’t mean it made me feel good.

Instead of cursing them as Granny would have, or bristling before telling them I had nothing to say to them as Mama would, I had exchanged pleasantries and tried to wish them well while I did, even if it pained me to do so.

Let me emphasize the “tried” part because I was a little bit upset at myself that I didn’t tell them what I truly thought.

“Sometimes, you just have to kill someone with kindness,” I answered.

I wasn’t really sure if I believed that or not.

But, it was begrudgingly, the grown up thing to do.

Don’t Make Me Get My Mama (3/23/2016)

My earliest memories of my Mama convinced me being a mother was the closest thing to being either a superhero or a one-person Mafioso.

I can recall recounting something my first grade teacher (who hated me, by the way) had said to me on the way home; Mama turned that Monte Carlo around like something out of “Smokey and the Bandit” and hightailed it back to the school to confront the woman.

The evil woman was scared. I was amazed – Mama was a skinny little waif of a thing then but she was putting the fear of the devil in this hardened woman who looked like she was carved on Mount Rushmore.

A deep epiphany came over me that day. Mama, and not just Granny, was to be feared.

Even though that dreadful woman hated me, she pretty much gave me a wide berth after that, until one day she made another derogatory comment to me. Remembering the way she had reacted that fateful day, I narrowed my eyes and clenched my jaw.

“Don’t make me get my Mama,” I said.

It worked.

Over the course of the next several years, Mama became legendary – a parental “John Wick,” if you will, minus the artillery. Her weapons were her tongue, her big puffy red bouffant, and the fact she was right. And God forbid if anyone disparaged her Kitten. She went from a relatively reserved, quiet peace-loving lady who dared not offend a soul into a hellcat with claws.

When one high school science teacher, who seemed to take pride in how many of us failed his weekly quizzes, decided to point out one of my friend’s test scores in front of the class, my friend replied, “Don’t make me get Sudie’s Mama up here. I will.”

The teacher looked at him and laughed. “In case you forgot, you’re not her child.”

“Yeah, well, she will still come up here if I call her. Don’t make me call her.”

“Would she?” the teacher asked, directing the question to me.

I nodded. She would.

She did, too. I told her what the teacher did and the next morning, she was in the principal’s office, telling him making fun of a student in front of his peers was not conducive for learning and created a hostile educational environment. If it was wrong, it was wrong, and Mama couldn’t stand for injustice.

We had a new teacher the following semester.

Flash forward to my senior trip. Two friends and I had decided to go to Panama City. Mama was fully against this, saying we were too young to go out of state.

Granny, always on my side, snorted and said, “When you was her age, you was already married and divorced. Let the youngun’ go. She’s gotta live a little before life sucks the joy right out of her.”

The morning after we graduated, we hit the road, arriving at a hotel that took our money but didn’t give us a room.

Here we were; three girls completely out of our elements and miles away from home.

I pulled out the only thing I knew could work. I sidled up to the counter, looked that clerk in the eye and said, “Don’t make me call my Mama.”

One of my friends whispered, “I don’t think they know about your Mama here in PCB.”

“No, we don’t know about your Mama. And we don’t care. Your Mama can’t do anything,” the greasy man sneered.

And you know what? For the first time in my life, when I told Mama about it, Mama didn’t do anything.

When we went home two days later – because we realized we were too young to be miles and miles away from home without our mamas—I told Mama what happened. She pursed her lips together, her grey-green eyes flashed first with anger, then worry, and she nodded silently while I told her the horrors I had endured.

“I am so sorry,” she finally said when I finished.

“I got the name of the hotel and the name of the mean clerk for you,” I told her.

“I don’t need it,” she said. “You see, Kitten, you wanted to go off and be all grown. I thought you were far too young to go off with your friends without an adult. Had you maybe listened to me, and not gone, this wouldn’t have happened.”

The woman who lived to defend and protect her precious Kitten was not going to unleash her locusts in another state? What in the world was wrong with her?

“So, you aren’t going to do anything, Mama?”

“Not this time,” she said. “You wanted to be all grown and independent. Part of being grown means taking care of your own problems.”

Of course, since I have grown up, Mama will still launch an attack if anyone wrongs her only child. She has threatened to come up here on numerous occasions when I have told her of some injustices.

And I admit, there’s sometimes, I wish I could just let Mama handle some stuff.

As a parent myself, I am trying to teach my child how to handle his own issues. The other day, after exploring every possible option to get a game to save, he asked for the phone. “Who are you calling?” I asked.

“Their customer service department,” he said.

“Do you want – ”

“No, Mama, I got this. I’m 11, you know, I can take care of it.”

He scurried off to leave a message for tech support. They called back within 10 minutes.

“Wow,” I said. “That was quick! They must have excellent customer service.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it was what I said when I left my message.”

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I told them I had spent my money I saved up on this and needed to know how to make it work. But I think the kicker was, “Don’t make me get my Mama.””

The legend undoubtedly continues.