Sunday, July 24, 2005
Sundays and Mothers
Is Sunday the beginning of the week, or the end? Does it really matter?

Sunday is my least favorite day. It's the day that says, 'Hey, late nights are over. Get ready for work.' Sundays are quieter; nap days are on Sundays.

Of course, there are some good parts of Sunday. For one, NPR has some good shows on, and no matter what anyone says, 'Prairie Home Companion' IS funny and interesting. Secondly, it always seems to rain on Sundays (at least here in the South), and rain is a calming sleepy friend. Even the cat seems to snooze more and bite less.

I've watered the plants on the deck while Michael naps, and have pulled off peppermint leaves from their spindly vines. I take the leaves inside and rinse them, then crush them between my fingers and let the green run into my ice tea. Even now, over the smell of cigarette on my skin, I smell peppermint. Peppermint is a late summer smell.

This Sunday, Michael's parents left to return home to Kentucky. I believe Michael was crying a little--as only children are wont to do when parents disappear. I should know, I'm an only child, too. While I like his parents, and find them warm, I was glad to have the apartment back to just us. On the other hand, there will come a time when my parents will come visit us and I will be sad to see them leave but Michael will be relieved. That's the nature of parents, isn't it? Why, we all try to act so grown-up and serious or artsy or know-it-all like, but when parents are involved, you can't help but become a child again, at least to them. It's also a bit revealing, too. Constantly, I am comparing his mother to my mother, his family to mine. Michael doesn't go to the hospital or the doctor, even if he is sick. His mother said, "That's the way it is with us" [Read: Our way is better AND Michael is still an 'us' and not a 'you']. Not my family. You're sick? You go to the doctor. You stay home and rest. Eat soup. Read a book. That's what WE do. Does it really matter? No, not so much. Michael's mother makes potatoes differently from mine. Michael doesn't eat vegetables. Does it matter? Not so much. But there it is: "My mother doesn't do it THAT way...." Mothers are a presence, aren't' they?

Of course, in the end, I'll win. He's with me, now. And I'll turn into my mother, and our children will be raised by me, and they WILL eat vegetables and they WILL say please and thank you, even to waiters and waitresses, and when they are sick, they'll go to the hospital.

Mothers are women, and women, in the end, always have the final say. And that's the truth about Mothers.
Written by FRITZ
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Name: Fritz

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