One of my earliest memories of Mom involves me standing around pretending to work while everyone cleaned up the upstairs. We use to never understand why she’d make us clean up our rooms– after all, SHE didn’t live in those rooms. I’d ask her why, and she say because its the happy way to live. Isn’t that all rather strange? What would you say to yourself if you asked yourself, “Well, its a right proper diaster up there. Should I let them live in the toy dump they’ve created, or should I go up, deal with all the moaning and help them live the happy way?” I can tell you what I would decide to myself. (The first one).
We lived upstairs, you know, and the sound of mom’s foot steps on the stairs, sturdy and rhythmic, were like the warning drums. Either it meant we’d have to do school or we’d have to clean up- both terrible. But she was always so steady. Always taking us to better places, against our will and poorer judgement.
She is out of town right now, and I am here at her house unsure of what to do with myself. I’ve stayed here by myself on several occasions, but when mom is not around there is a sort of aimlessness about the entire earth. I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with myself for years, and through every single day of changing my mind about every single thing, she’s always been there to tell me that my new idea was a possibility and that everything was okay, oh, and since I was there, we ought to go ahead and watch the new Pioneer Woman. See? Thats exactly what one needs in a mother. I don’t know how she gets along so much without complaining. That is something that ought to be commended.
You’re not allowed to sing or talk about barbies at the table. Or sing or eat food while doing the dishes. I guess that is also the happy way to live.
I’ve asked for the last ten or more birthdays and Christmases for a kitten and she never gets me one. Thats the only negative comment I can come up with.