Sunday, May 14, 2017

In Which I Embarrass My Mother to Communicate My Regard

So my mom is awesome.
Yours truly. (I'm not posting a picture
of her as a Mother's Day present to her.)

And this is not just me being biased and generally pro-myMom here. I mean, I admit, sure my data-set is skewed, and I am drowning in confirmation bias, but still. Awesome.

Because everyone* thinks their mom is awesome, bear with me and just let me give you an example of why my mom makes most other moms eat her dust: 

I was at a very stupid age. Pause. That probably requires some clarification; I don't mean the stupid age where I was young enough to think that racing toilet paper was somehow a good idea (as opposed to just being a great way to clog the toilet... yeah, just don't ask), I was a little bit older than that.  
So -again, bear with me- for some reason I was not allowed to wear deodorant (it could have had something to do with the fact that, not even being a tween, I didn't need to wear deodorant, or possibly because my mother didn't really want to share, a concept which I confess I didn't understand at the time, not being a deodorant-user, and which I still have difficulty with when it comes to other desirable, differently-ownered objects). Unfortunately I had a habit of only following the rules I thought made sense (and my views of what 'makes sense' can be conveniently narrow) so at the first available opportunity I naturally used her deodorant. I have no idea why I didn't use my father's, as it always smelled much nicer. Or perhaps I had thought it through to some degree, because my mother's deodorant didn't smell like anything. It was one of those salt crystal deodorant stones that you buy for way too much money in health food stores.

So... apparently I should never play poker, because I must have looked really guilty as soon as I came out of the bathroom. My mother, being a sharp lady -- and a mother, which apparently gives you +5 dexterity or something like that -- noticed that I had finished my shower, and immediately drew the correct conclusion, deducing in true Sherlockian fashion that I had succumbed to temptation.  (...and no, I can't really remember why the whole notion was so tempting, but it must have seemed like a good idea at the time.) 

So she asks me... "Did you use my [still wet] deodorant stone?" and I respond with the single-digiter version of:  "N...n... no, of course not, why would you think a silly thing like that? Silly." as I glanced  guiltily towards her toiletries. Of course I get the mom-eyebrow, which is like the Spock-eyebrow squared. I fiddle casually with my hair towel. "Are you sure?" and I'm positive now that the world is ending because, while I have minimal respect for the rules, I rarely get caught, so I am a godawful liar and I know it. I nod reluctantly at my approaching doom, until it occurs to me that she has no ProofShe knows that I did it, but she can't prove it! I am saved. (I'm still referred to as 'the swamp monster,' so my congenital inability to keep anything clean and dry easily explained the wetness of the stone. So I thought. ...and like most small-time criminals my general thinking was sound, it was the details that tripped me up.) 

I must have looked unbearably smug at that realization. (Actually, I'm told that I always look unbearably smug, it's like my version of resting bitch face apparently. So I must have looked more smug. Or perhaps that was when it started.)

But like I said. My mom is awesome. And this is where those seemingly-unnecessary details in this seemingly unnecessarily long 5-paragraph epic come into play. Because she looks down at me -- slowly, slowly, slowly the eyebrow goes up, daring me to guess what's coming -- and casually says "So if I came over there and licked your armpit it's not gonna taste like salt right?"

Silence.

There is, of course, no doubt in my mind that she will actually do it. My mom does not make empty threats, now or then. (Though fortunately or unfortunately, she no longer threatens me, merely retaliates against real or imagined wrongs done by sharing unwanted details about my conception, and entrusts everything to my own sense of self-preservation. So. Much. Worse.)

She takes a step towards me. Naturally I confess the whole sordid affair. 

That's love. Being willing to lick your kid's armpit for the sake of their moral development.

The reason I'm sharing this (slightly, okay, okay, very, strange) story is because my mother has already told half the US anyway. No, seriously, I'm sure that lots of people have embarrassing and more-than-a-little-stupid stories of their mothers and/or children, and simply have too much good taste to tell them.

I have no such limitations. So, because I have the emotional range of a teaspoon, the only way I know how to communicate my regard (apparently) is to humiliate myself on the internet:

I love you mom. I would hope, if I am ever unfortunate enough to have children like me, that I will have the cojones needed to lick my kids' armpits in the name of justice and truth, if the need should ever arise.

___________________
*Sometimes when adults say "everyone" they mean: "a large majority of people, and I don't want to address the minority here because that would be uncomfortable and weird and would decrease the rhetorical impact of my main point."