Category Archives: My Mom
Update: In the four months since I originally wrote this post, my mom has a few more posts that she doesn’t like a single bit. I’m adding them here – to make it TEN posts that my mom hates…
In case you didn’t know, my mom is pretty much my biggest fan.
Every morning, I call her no later than 8 am. She has already read my latest blog post, and is ready to tell me how amazing, hilarious and talented I am.
She subscribes to the comments, so I usually get at least one (usually two) calls throughout the day for her to tell me how many comments I’ve received and what they’ve said.
She reads your comments out loud to me. And now that I think about it, I should really just have her respond to your comments on my behalf while we’re on the phone… not a bad idea!
Anyway, every now and then a post comes along that she really doesn’t like.
During our morning phone call she’ll pretend she hasn’t read my post yet (which is my first sign that she doesn’t like it.) And then she’ll call back after she’s had her first pot (or two) of coffee for the day and tell me exactly why she doesn’t like it.
She’s always a good sport about things. She never asks me to take things down or change things. But every now and then, she really doesn’t like what I’ve written.
Here are her the ones she hates the most…
She hates this one with a passion. Seriously – she talks about it more than you’d think. She says things like,
It was a disgusting post. Just disgusting.
It was disgusting when it happened, and it was disgusting when you wrote about it.
I’m not sure why people like it so much.
I knew she wouldn’t like this post while I was writing it. And when I read it out loud to her before it appeared on Scary Mommy, she didn’t laugh once.
Every time it comes up she asks why on earth I had to talk about my “elephant.”
And when someone shares it on Facebook, the intro that shows up in the preview pane really bothers her. Believe me, I’ve heard about it several times.
Despite this, she still read it OUT LOUD to my dad! Which nearly killed me. Thankfully, she left out several words and all of #1 and #9. Whew…
#3 – How Am I Still Alive
This one bothers her because every single thing I mentioned is totally true.
And she especially feels bad about the BB Gun – which she should.
#4 – Major Mom Fail
My mom can barely even talk to me about this one. This post makes her so sad that she cries every time I mention it.
And – unfortunately – Alice still does this every now and then.
Now you’d think that she doesn’t like this post because it makes her look a little… silly.
But, no, that has nothing to do with it.
She doesn’t like this post because it makes her air sick.
I’m not kidding.
I knew this wasn’t going to be on the top of her list. I hit publish on this post, and then I sat back and waited for her phone call.
Really, Anna? You just had to go there, didn’t you?
Yes, mom. Yes I did.
My mom is still in shock (11 years later) that she paid for my tattoo.
I am still in shock that it hasn’t sagged an inch.
#8 – Pooping in Public
I know. I know. I went way too far with this one.
But someone please tell me what else I’m supposed to do when I’m stuck in a bathroom stall with my kids?
She wasn’t offended by this post. Not a single bit.
She was, however, offended that I might think that she didn’t know the other meaning for the word beaver.
I just can’t win…
#10 – Believe it or not, there isn’t a #10… yet.
But if you want to read more about my mom, you can see the post she wrote right here.
Isn’t she the greatest?
By the time I hit 7th grade, I was full grown. At 5 feet, 6 inches tall, I looked down at all of the junior high boys, and I outweighed the guys and the girls by a good 30 – 40 pounds.
I got used to people saying, “You know how you’re not fat, you’re just really big?”
And I did know. I wasn’t fat. I was just adult-sized in a junior high world.
One of my teachers had the great idea to sign me up to compete in the high jump for our track team. “With legs like that, you’ll be great.” he said.
He also called me “Beef” as a nickname.
Looking back, I’m not sure why anyone thought the thick, Greek girl would be able to jump over anything, but I certainly gave it my best.
But I was worse than anyone thought possible.
And I fell.
And I fell.
And that was just during practice.
By the time our first meet rolled around, my back was bruised, and I was pretty sure that I was never going to clear 4 feet.
I cried to my mom just before it was my turn to compete. “My back hurts so bad, and I’m never going to get over the bar, and I have a high butt crack…”
She wrapped her arms around me and took me to her car. I thought for sure she was going to let me quit.
But instead she popped open her trunk and handed me a massive box of heavy-flow maxi pads.
And she proceeded to lift up my shirt and stick those pads all over my back. Then she wished me luck and sent me back to the track meet.
My new pads brought new confidence.
I never once cleared a 4-foot high-jump bar – but I never had a bruised back again either…
I wrote this over a year ago, but when I saw the local junior high kids at track practice yesterday, I decided to share it again. Ahhhh…. memories!
When I was growing up, we hosted most of the family get togethers at our house. Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, neighbors – it seemed like there was a reason to celebrate at our house nearly every single month.
Which meant that every single month, we would spend an entire morning trying to avoid my mother.
See – my mom is normally a very happy, fun person to be around. But you find her within a 3-hour window of company arriving?
You need to run.
She would wake up in the morning, and you’d think that everything would be fine. Maybe this time would be different.
But she’d turn on you on a dime. One minute she’d be mixing up some chocolate chip cookies and the next minute there would be rage and yelling and thick tension.
My dad couldn’t do anything right.
My brother and I were told to do inane things like clean out the hot tub or iron tablecloths that didn’t seem to need ironing. We’d all be running around trying to help while also staying out of her way.
And usually I’d find myself hiding in my closet calling my grandmother and begging her to come over early.
Because the second our first guest arrived, my mom would return to a normal human being. She’d be nice and friendly and happy again. And we’d all forget what a rager she’d had – until the next time company was invited over.
Well – last month, I officially realized two things.
1. I have become my mother.
2. My mother was running around like a crazy person because her husband was stupid. (No offense dad).
Sweet Alice turned 4 last month, and we celebrated by having her grandma, aunts, uncles and cousins over for a birthday party brunch. I had things fairly organized before the party, and I had a general timeline in my head of what needed to happen between 8 – 10 am on Saturday morning.
I was going to prepare the food while Even Steven bathed the kids. Then I was going to get myself dressed while Even Steven quickly vacuumed the downstairs.
Everything else was finished and ready to go.
And yet I found myself trying to make an egg casserole with three helpers wanting to stir and crack eggs and pour the milk THEMSELVES.
And I found myself trying to keep three kids in the bathroom while I took a quick shower.
And I found myself trying to keep three kids entertained while I attempted to slap some makeup on my face.
And where was Even Steven?
Well – he spent his morning vacuuming the house (like planned).
And then he spent about 45 minutes looking for the attachments to the steam mop (that we haven’t used in two years) because that day of all days was the day it needed to be done.
And then while I was trying to get all three kids dressed and presentable – while also making sure not to burn the egg casserole – he walked around on his hands and knees putting outlet covers in every single outlet in the house that didn’t already have one.
You know – just in case one of our guests tried to stick their keys in the outlet.
And all I could think the whole time was,
Oh my gosh, you are killing me.
Please help with the kids.
Why are you doing this?
How is it that men always know how to play this game? It’s like they purposely do things that are super annoying – but that you really can’t complain about.
I mean – can you really complain that your husband is helping you get ready for a party by steam mopping the floor and covering the outlets?
Despite all of this, I felt like I was keeping it together fairly well considering the circumstances.
Until I caught Alice calling my mom on her fake phone. “Yia Yia – my mom is crazy. We need you here – now!”
And that is when I officially knew that I was my mother.
Next I’ll be wearing flannel shirts and eating the dog’s thyroid medicine.
When did you know you were becoming your mother?