I still haven’t lost my pregnancy weight.
And my son Andrew turns thirty in a few weeks.
That kid was murder, I tell you. When he was little he was so in-love with me. So enamored, in fact, that he used to ask, “Mom, why DO I hate dad so much?”
And good mother that I am, I’d say, “Don’t worry about it Ange, I don’t like him much either.” I mean, why not save the kid on his future therapy bill.
But then he turned on me.
When he was ten and did the normal thing that kids do—start pulling away—never thinking in a million years that MY sweet child would ever do such a thing, I’d ask for my usual kiss hello, and traitor that he was becoming, he’d say, “No mom, you’ve been getting the wipps all week.”
So here I am, sixty years old, and my son is still asserting his independence.
At times, he even thinks the same thing as that blogger, Tony Kansas City, used to think, the one who called me a witch. Not the real kind—a woman with strength who uses her power for good things, like healing and such— the brainwashed kind. The kind with all the stereotypes bestowed on a passionate woman’s head.
I wish I was a witch.
For if I had special powers, I’d have more frequent conversations with my son, and I’d fill that blogger up with so much love that he’d be putting nothing but joy into the world.
But I don’t.
So, I’ll just sit here in the dark, hoping and praying that these last twenty pounds come off.
Here’s to you if you’re also looking for the humor in the weird side of life.
The photo: My boy and me (and Funk and Tara too).