“Mom, you have a big mouth, you can’t talk to my baseball coach. EVER. Dad will agree with me.”
What was he saying to me? Was he serious? I’d braved a high risk pregnancy, complete with brain tumor against medical advice to bring this little shit into the world and he’s telling me I’m not allowed to speak to his fucking coach? omg! who the fuck he think he was talking to?
“What’s on your mind, bubala?”
“Mom, you’re so…outspoken and LOUD…you know how you get…it’s just so embarassing”
“Go on. I can listen without drooling on myself.”
“I get embarrassed when you talk loud and ask questions and you don’t know anything about sports. it’s humiliating. my friends think it’s kind of cool that you’re smart about alot of things though.”
“Sweetheart, I’ve never asked your Coach a single question…that’s your Father’s area. Please stop behaving like I walked into one of your classes, picking my butt and sniffing my fingers, it’s extremely insulting, I’m hardly an animal. No one is here to threaten your future but more important, do you think it’s ok to talk to your Mother like that? Why would you be so demanding and hard on me?
“Shit Mother, you’re so dramatic!”
Rick walks in, asks what the commotion is all about and picks up a laundry basket. oldest daughter sits next to him and asks me if I think I should start “wearing a better fitting bra on a regular basis for someone my age”