I have been tagged for a meme by Slouching Mom. The subject? Real moms, and all things about them. As I am not yet one, I shall write about my own dear mother. So without further ado, let the Mommery commence!
Real moms aren’t afraid to catch their child’s vomit in cupped palms, even if it’s regurgitated Hamburger Helper.
Real moms aren’t that surprised to see decorative Jackson Pollack-like artwork comprised entirely of poop on their child’s bedroom walls.*
Real moms go without new outfits for years, even wearing their own daughter’s hand-me-ups after they’ve gone out of style.
Real moms wear t-shirts that say, “When it comes to guilt trips, I’m a frequent flyer.” With no irony whatsoever.
Real moms tell you wistfully that they’ll probably be too old and crippled to play with their grandchildren before you get around to producing one.**
Real moms rush to your aide when you sprain your ankle, driving 45 minutes to bring you crutches, an ice pack, and concern. When they arrive, they berate themselves for forgetting to also bring soup and Ben-Gay.
Real moms obsess over the fact that you probably turned out this way because they neglected some minor developmental issue years and years and years ago.
Real moms sing lullabyes you remember forever.
Real moms have purses that could transport a pallet of landscape pavers. Inside, there will be dusty wads of tissues (some crusty at one end but deemed still usable on the other), four different kinds of lip balms, sensible breath-freshening gum, a ring of keys that could crush a small mammal, an envelope of coupons (many of which expired before 1989), a vinyl-clad checkbook, a tire gauge, a flashlight, a vat of Vaseline intensive care hand cream, a lint roller, a wad of insurance documents, a small medicine chest, a first-aid kit, a microscopic sewing kit, hand sanitizer, and the ugliest photo of you ever taken.
Real moms cook the best meals, paint the best crafts, sew the best quilts, and grow the best gardens. They never think their handiwork is the best, though.
Real moms are not afraid of mucous, but they are terrified that you will be attacked by terrorists if you move to Chicago.
Real moms fall asleep during movies, even ones they see in the theater, because they work too hard all week long.
Real moms aren’t afraid to break it down on the dance floor when the wedding DJ plays Nelly. And they don’t mind much when you laugh.
Real moms (and dads) tell you when you’re an insolent teen that if there is any justice in the world, you will have twin daughters someday, and they will be exactly like you.
So there you have it. Love ya mom!
*Please note that I was not the poop-smearing child. But I was the Hamburger Helper expeller.
**I should point out that this is a sentiment not actually spoken aloud by my mother, but implied. It is also a sentiment shared strongly by other parental figures in my life.