I'm 42 years old and I'm still a little afraid of my mother. This is healthy, I think. I adore this strong, no nonsense woman, with all of my being. When I told my mom that I was thinking of writing a blog, she was hesitant but supportive.
"Just remember to be classy. You can be funny, but still classy. Don’t be crude"
I'm pretty sure mentioning "lady parts" in my first post did not fit this description. But, c’mon! I should get some serious brownie points for not cussing. If there is one way to bring out the feistiness in the matriarch, it's cursing. Don't get her started on the f-word. No... not that f-word. Are you kidding me????Do you want her to keel over on the spot? Good grief, no...I’m talking about FART. See? I just had a mental picture of her wincing as she reads this. Sorry, but it's almost comical how much she despises this word. My kids use it often, like any good-natured, potty-humored child should. She has tried-desperately to teach them, "PASS GAS" "POOF," or how about... "TOOT???"
Oh how the off-spring laugh. “Grandma, you’re so funny. It’s a fart. ”
But do you know what? She laughs right along with them.
Ohhhhh, nice. If that was me, I would've been strung up by my toes for even the ACT of actually tooting, poofing, or passing gas in my mother's presence.
Yes, indeed, I fear her. I fear her disappointent, her disagreeing words, and her ferocious stink eye, but that’s natural. As a mom, she wants the best for her offspring. She wants me to rise up and be the best version of myself. Isn’t that what all moms want?
But, here’s the thing. If I won a farting contest.... she’d applaud me and be the first with the standing ovation... because that’s what moms do. They applaud. They cheer on their offspring for things that they are passionate about. And yes, I can fart like a machine gun.
Ask the husband, I’d be an Olympic contender. Thanks, Mom. For tooting my horn, in every way. You are, and always will be, my biggest cheerleader.
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