Fun fact: I'm not my mother's favourite child. Potentially devastating fact: She's admitted this to me. Uplifting fact: I didn't require therapy after this revelation.
I know this all sounds super tragic and like a recipe for spending the rest of my adult like in therapy. But honestly this didn't shock or come as a surprise to me.
I have a rather cavalier attitude towards crumbs behind the microwave or in my cutlery tray.
My idea of dessert sometimes involves bacon.
I always have more than two pairs of shoes by the front door.
I almost never remember to unload the dishwasher.
The only way I will run and enjoy it is if I'm chasing an ice cream truck.
I hate black olives. (Newsflash mom...I just discovered I don't really hate green olives.)
I read weird books.
I bite my nails.
I have a rather loose attitude towards putting clothing away.
My bedroom floor is the biggest shelf in our apartment.
I read more than one book at a time.
3 hour hikes aren't necessarily my idea of a good time. (I'm getting better though.)
I eat carbs.
My idea of organization is less of system that makes sense and more a system involving piles.
I laugh hysterically at the idea of company napkins, soap and china.
I'd rather die then eat an aubergine.
I can't take no for an answer.
I wore combat boots with sundresses.
I could go on...I really could. My mom and I are like battery acid and....something that is the complete opposite of battery acid. I am the bull in my mother's china shop (yes I know the Mythbusters totally busted that myth but the analogy still works.) But here's the cool thing about my mom...despite my love of clutter and leaving books lying around she loves me. Despite my suspect housekeeping and desire to wear my beloved Chuck Taylors with everything she loves me. Despite the fact that she has openly admitted to not understanding me and that my brother is her favourite she still tries to make sense of the kid that is her 2nd born. Despite the fact that my hair has been a million colours and I have tattoos and piercing she loves me. Tattooed and full of holes. Sure she's still going to try and win me over to the idea of black olives and putting my clothing away after I do the laundry but that's what makes her a Mom. I'm 29 and my brother will be 31 in a few weeks. She hasn't stopped being our mom. She still sighs heavily when she sees my tattoos. She still insists on cleaning the crumbs out of my cutlery dish and harasses me when I don't zip up my coat. She's a mom, she can't help it. And I like that. No really I do mom...that heavy sighing and eyerolling may say "stop it" but it really means, "yay my mom still likes being my mom!!!"
Happy Mother's Day mom from your second not so favourite child...you know Tania...yeah...the kid that isn't Johnny...I'll go unload the dishwasher now.