Tuesday, December 18, 2012: Who are you calling an Ass?

Dear Babies,

She texts a lot and says the f word.

She’s great and everything (cue “but” in five, four, three, two), but, isn’t she supposed to be the professional here? Isn’t this her job? 

These are the things going through my head while doing v-sits in pilates.

The instructor is tough. She gives a good class. She’s funny and feisty and I like her a lot, but…“Sorry!” she says, holding up one finger to the class, “I just gotta send this text!” And everyone chuckles because it’s “so her.”

I can be a “so her.”

Everyone can. Everyone has their personality quirks that, love them or hate them, make you uniquely you.

But, this is her one thing to do here. This is her job. At what point is being true to yourself  just an excuse to be an ass? Which got me thinking about my job…

…One of my favorite things to quote from the show “Family Guy” is Stewie trying to get his mom’s attention. Mom. Mum. Mummy. Mama. Mum. Lois. Mommy. Lois…

The other day while your dad was driving you tried so desperately to get my attention, baby boy. Mama! Mama! Mama! you said, each time louder than the cry before.

Finally when my ears were piercing, even for a someone with 1 1/2 of them, I would turn to you and say, YES! 

All you wanted was this.

All you wanted was for me to turn to you and say with genuine enthusiasm, “where is the crocodile? Is he on the boat?!” (don’t ask).

We played this game for a little. I said it a good few times. Three. Four. Five. By thirteen, I’d decided maybe this was enough. I tried to end it.

“Whew, okay, buddy, that was fun! Let’s look out the window here, look, there’s a tree! Whoooo!”

But you weren’t haven’t it.

Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! 

How long can we keep this up? This has to be the last time. I can’t keep turning my neck like this, I’m going to get whiplash, because I am a senior citizen who verbalizes fear of such doom–I mean, who really gets whiplash?

Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama…

So, I kept turning, each time mustering any shred of enthusiasm left. I tried spicing it up with different inflections. Oh my god, where is the crocodile? Is he on the boat?

Sometimes I forget what my job is.

Then I remember: I am the three-letter word.

No, not that word.

(Well, kinda.)

You're an ass. That's what she said!

Love,

Mom

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