My mom and I are fairly alike in some things, especially when it comes to eating. It’s because of her that I don’t eat peanut butter or green peppers. Like her, I need to have clutter removed from my space to function well (ok, not quite as much as her). And I am constantly overcommitting myself, just like her.
But then there are times when I see how different we are. My mom can’t remember song lyrics to save her life but still sings. To this day, I sing, “Lullabye and goodnight let you sweet song deliiiiight. Hushabye and good night, let your weary eyes fall down.” I know those aren’t the words, but I’ve never heard the correct words, and those are the only ones I know.
My mom readily admits to some of her entertaining characteristics. And there are some days when I really notice them. Like today.
You know, I really worry about those poor boys and girls.
Uhhh, what poor boys and girls, Mom?
The ones who don’t asked to the Homecoming dance and will be sitting home instead.
We don’t know anyone in high school. I didn’t know it was Homecoming weekend before this non sequitor. Oh, and I don’t think that the people who aren’t going to the Homecoming dance are necessarily that crushed by it. But this has officially made it to my mom’s worry list.
A few minutes later, she was reading an Australian book about crocodiles to Little Miss.
‘And now you’re safe my little poppet.’ Do you know what a poppet is, Little Miss?
No, what is it, Grandma?
A poppet is a baby alligator.
Uhh, Mom. a) you’re reading about crocodiles, not alligators. And b) a poppet is a British term of endearment, not a baby crocodile.
Yep, that’s my mom. Passing her special brand of quirkiness on to the next generation. We love her anyway!