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Broke Wife, Big City
I’m sorry, Mom.
Really, really sorry.
By Aprill Brandon
There’s nothing quite like the end of the year to make you look around
and take stock of your life. And as I sit here with little green Army
men imbedded (probably permanently) in my hair, in a house that looks
like my toddler is the world’s youngest demolitions expert, while
trying not to vomit because the 10-week-old fetus inside me is pumping
me full of high-octane, weapons-grade hormones, I realize I owe my mom
an apology.
Or two.
Or several.
First and foremost on that list is birth. Because that crap HURTS. I
mean, they tell you it’s gonna hurt but mere words cannot describe the
sensation of an angry watermelon taking its dear sweet time to find the
exit door, which is only the size of a lemon. So, even though I don’t
remember it, I’m sorry for putting you through that, mom. Especially
since, just like my kid, I doubt I left your womb the way I found it.
I also apologize for The Great Tomato Standoff of 1986. That’s three
hours of waiting for me to eat a vegetable you’ll never get back.
And then there was that time you signed me up for that second year of
ballet and it was only after you had paid for the entire year and
bought me three new tutus that I announced I no longer wanted to do
ballet.
The Great Brownie Lie of 1990, when I blamed the missing brownie piece
(of the pan of brownies you SPECIFICALLY told me NOT to eat) on the
dog.
For making you listen to the New Kids on the Block “Hangin’ Tough”
album over and over and over and over and over and over and over and
over and over and over again.
That time when I was 14 and called you a bad name under my breath on
the phone because you wouldn’t let me hang out with creepy, tattooed
dudes double my age on a school night. Or, like, whatever.
Actually, now that I think about it, I apologize in general for 1996.
Every track meet you had to sit through in the volatile Ohio spring
weather, but specifically that time it hailed and you toughed it out
only to watch me get seventh place in the 300 hurdles.
All those times I told my brother he was actually an alien baby from
Uranus (heh) that was dropped off on our doorstep and they would be
coming back for him any day now.
That time I got busted for drinking a Zima when I was 17. And yes, you
were right. If I was going to get busted for underage drinking, it
should have been for a less embarrassing drink.
For all those birthdays I got you a “coupon book” (Good for one free
hug!) because I was too cheap to buy you an actual gift.
There’s many more I could add (but let’s leave the majority of my
juvenile record out of this now that most of it has been expunged).
I love you, Mom. Thanks for everything (and for looking the other way
that time I was 19 and tried to act like I wasn’t hung over at
Grandma’s birthday party but we both totally knew I was).
And please take solace in the fact that your revenge will indeed be
served cold because I haven’t actually gotten to eat a meal while it
was hot since I became a mom.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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