Do You Like Your Mom?

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Originally this story was entitled, “My Mother Myself” until I discovered that’s the title of a book of feminine erotica. This story is about my mom so…. ew. It’s about how lucky I am to be hers.

It’s Mother’s Day today, which go me thinking about mothers in general and how complicated those relationships can be. Some people worship their moms. Some tolerate them in carefully timed phone calls. And some have no relationship with their moms at all as adults.

The mother and child bond is nature’s attempt at keeping children close lest they get eaten by a lion. It also ensures parents have someone to care for them in their sunset years. Humans may instinctively love their moms, but they don’t necessarily LIKE them.

I happen to love AND like my mom. Even if we weren’t related, we’d hang. My mom is my biggest fan and most trusted confidante. She thinks everything I do is wonderful and she makes me feel like I can do anything. When they dealt out mums, I got an ace, who also happens to be a complete card.

My mom and I shop in the same clothing stores and listen to the same music. She’s cooler than I am.

My mom can dish it out, but takes it and then some. My brother and I tease her mercilessly but she never takes herself too seriously.

My mom is a chronic punster. She can make anyone laugh. Often on purpose. Thankfully she passed along her silly bone. The ability to find the funny has helped me through a lot of tough days.

My mom is a “traditional” grandma. She bakes cookies, brings home stacks of library books hand picked for each grandchild, makes them their favourite special meals and loves them like crazy. 

My mom is also a “non-traditional” grandma. She gets down on the floor and plays her heart out. She ensures there are fresh jelly beans to launch from the hand knitted “poop ducks” and joyfully entertains my daughter by letting her stuff balls down grandma’s top, who rejoices when they re-appeared out the bottom (my daughter that is, not my mom, though she seems to find the reappearing balls joyful too).

My mom never comes over empty handed. She’ll appear with a homemade lasagna, a bouquet of flowers from her garden, newspaper clippings about “something you MUST read when you have a minute”, even rolls of toilet paper she got at Costco and thought she’d share.

My mom is beautiful and has the softest skin. Next time you see her, touch her. Do it.

My mom is sneakily generous. She’ll call my hair salon and pre-pay for my haircut and colour “anonymously.” She’s my hair-o. The puns. It truly is genetic.

I know my children love me, but I hope that as they get older, they like me as much as I like my mom.