oh, mom

 

I adore my mom. I love some Patsy. One of my favorite things about her growing up was that she was content loving and serving our family. She cooked and cleaned and mothered and I rarely remember her complaining. She made it all seem easy even though I know it wasn’t.

 

mom and Luke 

 

But I ran across this picture recently and feel the need to ask her some tough questions. I envision her less than 5 foot tall self in the 1970’s at an Olan Mills studio pleading with me to smile – not that cheesy smile – but a ladylike smile. It didn’t seem to work.

 

And though I couldn’t express it then, I will now.

* Does this look like a bikini body to you?

* Why does my bathing suit resemble a stain glass church window?

*  Why is there a real column but a fake fence?

* This shag rug is very itchy in all the wrong places.

* Where is my shovel and pail?

* Dad would have never done this to me.

Even in your lapse of judgment mom, I still think you’re the best.

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One thought on “oh, mom

  1. You’re right! I would have never done that to you. In fact to set the record straight immediately after that traumatic experience I took you to get a Happy Meal and then we watched cartoons until late into the evening. I had hoped this would erase the psychological scars that you experienced but based on your story it seems it didn’t work. But it may be helpful and therapeutic if you write a blog on that wonderful evening we spent together afterward. I’m sure it is one of your favorite childhood memories.

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