I Love Being A Little Shit

I have been staying with my Mom this last week, so she can help me take care of Lucas since he has been sick.  She has been very helpful, but the absolutest, bestest, most funnest thing about staying with my Mom is that for brief periods of time during the day I get to revert to being the child.  She is now the parent and I am the child.  I get to be the one who nags that they are hungry, I get to throw a fit when I am tired while we are doing errands, and I definitely get to be the one who rolls her eyes, and I am going to be totally honest…I LOVE IT!!  LOVE LOVE LOVE IT!!  It makes me deliriously happy to be a Little Shit! Today we went to Michael’s Crafts.  My Mom is spending $75.00 in crafts to decorate a bird house that will be auctioned off for $25.00 for charity by the Retired Teachers Association.  My Mom is taking decorating this bird house very seriously.  Don’t let the whole “retired teachers” thing fool you.  These ladies are fierce bitches when it comes to decorating birdhouses.  There was no way my Mom is going to let her birdhouse suffer by comparison.  This is the second craft store we have been to in two days because my Mother HAS TO HAVE A LITTLE CAT TO GLUE TO THE ROOF OF THE BIRDHOUSE.   She wants to then glue a little mouse she found next to the cat.  We looked and looked.  Trust me, no such little cat exists in Sacramento.  The Little Shit came out today deep in the scrap booking section.  Me:  “Seriously Mom, just write a check.  It’s easier.  Tell them to shove their birdhouses and write them a check and then move and change your number so they can’t contact you ever again to do this.” My Mom did what she has been doing to me for 36 years.  She ssshhed me.  That was all the Little Shit in me needed.  I got a reaction.   A smile crept across my face as it It felt like I was ten again and I was loving it.  As she looked for miniature cats to glue to birdhouse roofs I begged to leave and get a coffee.  I kind of accidentally bumped her more than once with the shopping cart (a personal favorite of my stepsons) and just to make sure she didn’t forget, I let my Mother know many times I was hungry.  Gaining steam, I looked my Mother straight in the face and drank from HER watter bottle without asking – even when she told me not to, and when I had to pee, I pleaded with her to go with me.  It was my turn to be the kid again.  I was no longer the Mom, the responsible one in charge of keeping kids fed, safe, and pee free.   It was wrong, but it felt so right.  If I was twelve, my Mother would of been reaching for the Ritalin. When we got separated I swear to God I had separation anxiety and took great pleasure in walking through the store bleating out like some stray lamb, “Moh-moh-moh MOTHERRRRR!!!”  “Maaawwwm, where are you?”  My heart swelled when she barked back,  ”WHAAAAT…DAMNIT!!!” “Nothing.” I told her.  “Just wanted to let you know I love you.”  “Uh-huh, what do you want?” my Mother asked. “Just one thing,” I said.  “A cookie.”

You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.