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.”