This week my mom called me to ask if I was still writing my blog.� I told her yes, and gave her the address.� The next day she called me in a downright chipper mood to tell me she was very proud of me.� I was not so shocked that I couldn’t ask her why, but it was close.� She told me that she stayed up past 1:00 am reading my blog.� That I was a very good writer.� That the pictures of the boys were lovely.� That she loved everything about it.� And that it was very obvious to her that she had a large influence in my life and talent.
The last sentence I expected–the rest I didn’t.� I quickly crunched the numbers, and since the four preceding unexpected sentences outnumbered the predictable concluding sentence, I decided to stand there shocked, amused, and thrilled beyond measure.
After repeating repeatedly (and then some more) to The Mister what she had to say, I proceeded to use my abundant and varied talents to make homemade bread.� I measured, weighed, poured, and mixed.� After that, I kneaded, all the while a smile on my lips.� Writer and domestic goddess?� Why, yes.� Yes I am.
Later, after the novelty of the baked bread’s golden crust wore off, I decided to stroke my writer/domestic goddess ego even more by presenting Mikey with proof of his mother’s love (and superiority.)� He eagerly picked up his piece of (perfectly) toasted bread and took a bite.
“Well, Mikey?� How is it?” I was all but buffing my fingernails on the lapel of my mom uniform.
“This bread…” He started.
“Yes?” I smiled sweetly.
“This bread tastes funny.� Kind of like stinky, icky, gooey marshmallows.”� He dropped the bread on his plate, verdict delivered.
“WHAT?!� What do you mean?� Do you really think it tastes like stinky, icky, gooey marshmallows?� Do you even know what stinky, icky, gooey marshmallows taste like?”� I said, trying to ignore the sound of hot air slowing hissing out of my deflating head.
“You’re right, mama.”� Mikey said, thoughtfully.
“Thank you.”� I said, somewhat mollified.
“It definitely tastes like diaper rash.”
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