A Mother's Love
Two years ago, I took it upon myself to surprise my mother for Easter. I drove the seven hours to Albany, with only my father knowing, and arrived home around 11:30 PM. In my haste and excitement I busted my ass running up our front steps. When I say “busted my ass” I mean I tripped – while on the phone with my mother – and fell up the steps, cutting my elbow, knee, my hand and two toes. When I rang the doorbell, practically in tears, my mother spent a good 5 minutes trying to figure out why the doorbell was echoing on the phone. I told her she was having hallucinations and to open the damn door. She saw me and was happy and exclaimed that there was no where for me to sleep. The hell?
I mean, although I spent the first few days of my life in an honest to God drawer, I had a perfectly acceptable bedroom that had been painted in the Guilderland colors with yellow furniture for accents (It looks cool, I swear). “What do you mean I don’t have a place to sleep?” was the incredulous response. “Well G took your room over, because his is a mess and the basement is a mess, so there’s no place for you to sleep.” She went on to shove the knife further into my tired and busted ass heart to say; “It’s not like you live here anymore Heather Lynn. You have your own apartment and I wasn’t expecting you.” Ouch. This reminds me of the time that she told me – quite recently actually – that she was debating what to do with my bedroom now that I don’t live there anymore.
Fine, fully functional adult with her own apartment, that I understand, but the woman has pretty much been planning my eventual departure and most likely has drapes picked out. I bet ugly ass drapes too that are made out of kente cloth. Ok, I’m lying about the kente cloth part, but if you saw the living room, you’d understand. I should also mention that she has told me that unless I am seriously injured or dying, I’m not allowed to move back home. Trust me, I seriously contemplated it when I spent that whole three weeks unemployed. When told of the idea she replied with an emphatic “Hell no.” Meanwhile G is being molly coddled and probably won’t be asked to leave until he turns 25 and is offered a dowry of some sort.
This was all brought to mind this morning when I realized that I hadn’t talked to my mother in like days. Like, I don’t even recall the last time I spoke with her, but I’m assuming it was last week and only after I harassed her assistant. And even then, the conversation was limited to “What do you want? I have a meeting to go to.” That’s the love of a mother people. Don’t be surprised when after my trip home for Easter, she starts referring to me as “Oh, what’s her name…”