I came from her vagina.

Me: Isn't the bean awesome?
Mama M: It's giving me a headache.



I wanted a photo of here facing the skyline. She couldn't understand why I didn't want her facing the camera. "Just turn around!" I kept saying. This went on for some time. I finally got her to do it, but she shook her head at me after.


Me: Mom, you wanna go play in the water?
Mama M: Oh god no.






Mama M was here this weekend.
I have to admit I was kind of dreading it.
I love my Mom.
She’s all I got.
But we’re about as close as China and Iceland… not very.
Plus now I live in this tiny studio.
So there’s a lot less physical distance I can put between us.
And now that I live alone, there’s no other person to help take the weight off the conversation.

She wants to do everything in the city…
But has nothing specific in mind.
I always feel like I have to have this amazing itinerary planned for her.
Plus it was her birthday weekend, so I really felt a pressure not to blow it.
We did lots of fun stuff.
We went to the zoo, and saw Spelling Bee, sat at the beach, had great food at a lot of my new fave-o restaurants in my new hood, and saw Pirates II….
It turned out to be a pretty good weekend.

I love my Mom, but sometimes she also drives me up a wall.
I am really trying to find Zen with her.
She is a Leo.
She can be a bit bossy.
She can be a bit stubborn.
She can be a bit prideful.
But then, so can I.
There is a lot of stuff we have never talked about.
Sometimes I want to know the details but the foreseen uncomfortability would be too much to bear.
Whether that uncomfortability is only in my mind or real, is beside the point.
She has not once asked me how I am doing since the breakup.
I can feel that she just doesn’t want to touch this topic with a 10 foot pole.
Maybe it’s because she doesn’t want to make me feel bad by making me talk about it.
But to me it feels like there’s an emotional 10 foot wall that separates us.
(everything in this post is 10 foot)
As I get older I want to feel okay with her as an adult and as a person who is not just my Mom.
For a while this manifested itself in me awkwardly telling her intimate things about myself in a desperate attempt to bond.
I talked to her on the night Mr. 9 broke up with me.
I knew calling her crying was a bad idea, but I wanted my mommy to comfort me.
She’s not really that kind of mom.

Mama M: Well, why would he do something like that?
Me: I’m sure I don’t know mom. (Sobbing here) I just don’t know what to do.
Mama M: (Pause) Well that’s too bad about him. Do you have to find a new apartment?
Me: (URG!!!!) I guess.

The new way this is manifesting itself is me getting uptight with her for being so stiff and trying to force her to do a bunch of stuff I know she thinks is weird because I want her to open her mind to new things.
My mom is the youngest of three girls and the most square of all three.
Her two older sisters are real carefree and kind of wild.
I think they’re the bees’ knees.
She rolls her eyes at how they live their lives.
She gets hurt that I am closer to her sisters than to her.
I can see it in her face that she feels bad when I talk about how my aunt and I call each other all the time to shoot it when I’m at work.
I am trying not to elicit that look on her face anymore.
I’m trying not to judge her so much for things she does that I don’t agree with.
I’m trying to go into each encounter with her with an open heart.
I’m trying to be Zen.
I think I did okay.
Not great, but okay.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

Mama M: (She is laughing at the thought of this story she wants to tell me and finally she can get it out) So Donna comes into Minneapolis when I’m there. She wants to go see a concert. So I’m like, “Oh, what concert do you want to go see?” and she’s like “Alice Cooper”. (She’s laughing) “Oh” I say. I mean she’s like only two years younger than me and she wants to go see an Alice Cooper concert.

Me: Well what’s wrong with that? I’d go see the Alice Cooper concert with her.

Mama M: Exactly. Hasn’t she heard of David Benoit? Or Al Jereau?

Me: Mom you can’t judge somebody because they’re your age and don’t listen to Love jazz. (I can feel myself getting slightly flustered.) Plus, I thought you owned some KISS albums.

Mama M: Oh god no! I never listened to that stuff. It just doesn’t…move my soul I guess.

Me: (I am slightly upset that my mom is so square.) Never?

Mama M: No, I mostly listened to pop growing up. You know, James Taylor, Carol King, that sort of thing.

Me: Yeah, I’ve got those albums too. But there’s room for lots of different music in someone’s life.

Mama M: No. I just like what I like.

Me: (Urg.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

Mama M: My back is really hurting me, and I’ve put on some weight which I’m sure hasn’t helped.

Me: What have I told you about eating all that crap? Have you started doing that yoga tape I sent you in the mail?

Mama M: No. (I can see in her eyes that she doesn’t want to get guilted by her daughter).

Me: I know you hate me talking about it, but it’s gonna help your back.

Mama M: I don’t want to do it wrong.

Me: You can’t do it wrong. But you have to try it once first.

Mama M: We’ll see. (This means “no”)

Me: (Urg!)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

Me: Come on, I’ll buy you a shot of wheat grass.

Mama M: (Rolling her eyes at me) I don’t think so.

Me: Why are you so against trying new things? If you hate it... fine. But try it once and decide after.

Mama M: I just don’t want to.

Me: I’m buying you one and we’re doing it together. That’s all there is. (urg.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

Mama M: I just see a mean streak in my Mom. It’s the same one my Mom talks about her sisters having. And I want to say, “Don’t you see it in yourself?” I don’t have Grandma’s mean streak... do I?

Me: (I’m not saying anything. Not to hurt her, just cause I don’t know what to say.)

Mama M: Oh come on now… do I?!

Me: No…. (Looking away. URG! I hate myself. Why did I do that? She’s your fucking mom, dumbass.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

Me: Stop putting ice in your wine. It’s Merlot; it’s not supposed to be cold.

Mama M: But that’s the way I like it.

Me: Urg!

Mama M: What? That’s the way I like it.

Me: I know. It’s fine. Happy birthday.