My mother and I don’t always agree. The truth is, sometimes we fight to the point of hanging up the phone on one another. What can I say? We are both stubborn, and the apple didn't fall far from the tree. She has double the deconstruction work to do. Double the time, double the trauma, double the fun.
She was the first person I called post-cult kick-out, and for the past six years, we have been building a relationship from scratch. As I describe it, it has not been all unicorn farts and rainbow Skittles. It has been a walk through a park, Jurassic Park. I will share more of our relationship journey in other blogs, but for this one, I will share a giggle my Mom and I shared just a few weeks ago.
My Grandma passed away when I was five, and my Grandpa passed seven years before I was born; mom was sixteen. While my mom and I don’t always agree, her Grandbabies are her world. I do not have any memory of my Grandparents, no nostalgic smells, no remembrance of the warmth of their hugs or the sound of their laughter; all I have are stories of them based on the memories of others. There is a hole in my heart that will remain empty as long as I live. There is an ache that will always be and a curious wonder if Nanny and Poppy would love the woman I am today.
My Mom lives a five-minute drive from us. She calls every morning and afternoon, and if I don’t answer, she will drive over to be sure we are alive. My mom loves her family fiercely.
The point I am making is this: although we disagree and get heated, watching my children and my mom together while not filling the empty heart pocket of my own, their relationship is shading it with a childhood joy I did not experience.
Shopping with five tiny humans is not for the faint of heart, especially in IKEA. IKEA is the size of two and a half football fields, filled with Scandinavian furniture, a restaurant and a play place. For many, bringing five children into such a place would be anxiety-inducing, causing a panic attack. In my world, it’s another day. When crisis strikes, my calm demeanour panics my Mother.
As summer approaches, the sun refuses to set before bedtime, which fills my children with the audacity to claim bedtime will be when the sun decides to sleep. Dearest crotch goblins, as much as I love you, your little butts crawl into bed at 7:30, regardless of the sun’s bedtime choices. Assisting me in keeping the bedtime rules abided by are blinds and drapes, which we did not have, so off to Ikea we went, all six of us plus Grandma.
My kiddos love each other, but they are siblings, and they tiff. Somedays, they annoy the ever-lovingshit out of each other and without rhyme or reason, in Ikea, all annoyance bells went off between my oldest and my eight-year-old daughter. I don’t get involved; I am teaching my children to figure out their shit. Come at me if you desire; this parenting saves energy and expands our problem-solving and communication skills. I’m never far, so if it were to escalate, I would step in. However, in all twelve years of parenting, an escalation of such a degree has not occurred.
Mom and I are head-deep into blind and drape measurements and design when my oldest, pushing the cart in a huff, says to Grandma, “ I want to be born again without sisters.” As born-again ex-evangelicals, the opportunity to do the most hilarious thing possible presented itself and Mom and I were not about to let it slip by.
In the middle of IKEA, we were about to entertain with a comedy show. With fellow customers now a curious audience, Mom bursts into a ‘ hold your stomach’ laughter. It’s loud, and it is infectious. As tears of giggles begin to flow, she replies to him, “Your Mom is born again!”
“WHAT!” he shrieked.
“HOW?!”
As a mom, I have waited years for these moments when I get nominated as an ‘Annoying Mom.’ I wear the title of ‘Mean Mom’ proudly, and I have some incredible kids because of it.
I could see the wheels turning in his eyes as he awaited my answer. Now, we all know reality is set; once born, there is no turning back time. The clock ticks in one direction, and age goes up. If the devil himself could restart his life, one without annoying little sisters who itch your preteen, hormone-filled brain in all of the wrong ways without hesitation, my oldest would have sold his soul.
As a baptized, born-again-ex-Christian bigot, there was only one answer to his desperate plea.
With all sincerity, I gave him a call to action.
“Find Jesus.”
Our laughter stopped others in their tracks. They looked on as the laughter poured out of us.
Mom and I watched as his face filled with the look of, ‘You have got to be kidding me.’ At that moment, we earned the most annoying Grandma and Mom badge, which was worth it.
It is safe to say he won’t be finding Jesus. I mean, his Mom didn’t, and nobody on earth has seen the guy.
And I am sure some of you reading this may find the joke in bad taste or judge my parenting, and that’s ok. Right now, my oldest is in a deep stage of roasting. The classmates do it to each other in his classroom at school, including his teachers, and we do it to each other here at home. He will ask me to give him my best roast and vice versa. It’s a hilarious stage, one that I enjoy immensely as a writer and as his Mom; I love to see his quick wit in action.
Mom and I don’t always agree. Sometimes, we get heated, and in the middle of the ungodly-sized Scandinavian furniture warehouse, Jesus was not found. However, three generations experienced an incredible bonding moment and created a core memory.