rooftops
I called your mom and wept for the first time in a decade because I felt like she was mine.
I called your mom and wept for the first time in a decade because I felt like she was mine.
When I logged on to Facebook, I wasn't expecting to find my mother's suicide note.
It wasn't until I saw the first tear roll off his cheek that day in the hospital that I realized I wasn't just losing my Mother, but his little girl too.
The day our Uncle was crushed by a forty foot machine, my mother and brother could not stop discussing how cool it would be if he came back as a zombie while looking at his body and making arrangements for it at the funeral home.
I was dumbstruck when she advised me the best way to cope with being raped, was to never talk about it again.
While my classmate's very Christian parents were fighting to ban Huckleberry Finn in English class for its profanity, my mom bought me a fictional book for my birthday detailing the lives of Japanese hookers and proceeded to think nothing of it.
All my mom's kids have two middle names, but one of mine comes from a woman whose son set the fire that killed her in her sleep.
My 18 year old sister's pregnancy that was unknown until she was 7 1/2 months along has improved my mom's and my relationship to the point that I actually feel a little comfortable telling her things now.
His strict, Catholic, pure-minded mother caught us having sex on the pool table.
Like many of my mother's stories about me I do not remember this, but when I was a small child she claims she found me high in a large oak tree that had no low-hanging branches for me to climb up on.
It took me seven years to realize that when my mother sent me to him, she never wanted me helped, she wanted me drugged.
My mother says she doesn't know why is marijuana such a problem, because for her it's just a "relaxing herb."
I was laying next to her when she took her last breath, and now I can't seem to catch mine.
My mom joked, "Tell the interviewer, 'I love children, especially with noodles!'"
After seventeen years of feeling like a disappointment to my mum, and writing a story about how she screwed my life, nothing feels as good as deleting the story after over hearing her exclaim to strangers about how proud she is of me.
She cried as her daughter and her best friends shaved their heads too, so she wouldn't have to be bald alone.
As my mom drove away, after backing into the corner of our fenced in yard with our 15-passenger van, she yelled at us, "FIX THE FENCE!"
Fifteen years after my question crushed her foot, she called me from the chair lift, about to ski for the first time since I was three.
While my mother and her boyfriend were upstairs I quietly removed his size 34 jacket from the back of the chair and replaced it with my nearly identical size 46.
I asked my mother why she'd stopped keeping a journal after I was born and she said, "I was finally happy."
The mother I remember as a 5-year-old cannot possibly be the same woman who double dog dared me to flash cars on the way home from my 23rd birthday dinner.
My mom died this morning, leaving me feeling like an almost half-century-old orphan.
When I arrived at my dad's house after hearing he had died of a heart attack, the first words my mother said to me were, "Did you tell your dad you are gay?"
I realized that I was placating my drunken mother the same way I used pacify to my drunken college friends.
Seeing Wolverine's naked hiney with my mom was surprisingly not awkward.
When I told my mother I was taking laxatives to avoid gaining weight, her first response was "Did you steal them?"
My mother's reaction to telling her I was almost raped was shock that I said the f-word in fending him off.
I began to mentally tally the hours of therapy I'd need to fully recover during my mother's "funny story" about airport security searching her bag and discovering her vibrator.
We held up our mother like lonely shelved encyclopedias.
I seriously wasn't expecting *that* long of an awkward silence after her mother joked that we should get back together.
After years of proclaiming my extreme objection to cell phones, all it took for me to get one was a message on my voicemail from my mother saying she had to take a cab to the emergency room because I was not home to answer her call.
She was more upset when I told her I was a vegetarian than when I told her I was a lesbian.
I think what bothers me the most is that my mother pretends not to understand why I will never leave my children alone at their house.
I've never felt as guilty as when my mother took one look at me the weekend I lost my virginity on a class trip and said, "Something is different about you."
You know your adult son is home visiting when you find an empty beer can in your shower.
There was a night early in my childhood when I was certain my mother was going to commit suicide.
For Christmas my husband gave me a broken jaw, bruises and a new life as a single mother.
After the doctor told me, "It's a girl," my never-married mother looked into my bundle of joy's eyes and said, "Maybe you will break the cycle and get married first before having a child."
As I lay in bed, wailing and sobbing after hearing news of the horrible accident, you were across the country sending an e-mail telling me not to be so sensitive and upset.
My mom paused while vacuuming to tell me she's afraid my brother will kill himself, which I've known for the past seven years.
When the brain tumor failed to kill her, we were convinced that it's because evil doesn't die.
If my mother had told me I was pretty I wouldn't have put slutty pictures of myself online.
I still have the two huge dictionaries that my mother beat me with as a child.
Slightly mortified, I assured my mother incest wasn't really my thing after she warned me against getting into "trouble" with my cousin.
Clearing out your mother's house while she is still alive is emotionally draining and feels wrong.
My mother forgot to wash the pans between courses, resulting in cherry pie that tasted vaguely of fish, but it was still the best birthday ever.
I looked my mother straight in the eyes and told her I would never treat my kids the way she treated me, then I turned from the mirror and walked away.
Her first attempt at CPR shouldn't have to have been on her own mother.
Without taking her eyes off the magazine my mother casually told me, "Ya know, your first grade teacher was sure you were retarded or something."
I never had as long or decent a conversation with my mother as the one after I'd hit the deer and totaled the car.
The 1/32nd dose of the experimental drug cut her cancer in half, and I can't help but wonder if she would be alive today if they would have just given her a full therapeutic dose.
It's sad that my mother's cancer-filled dog seemed more frisky and alert on the day before he was put to sleep than he had been in years.
Tomorrow we will drive our son to college, get him set up in his dorm room, marvel at what a great school he will be attending, help him settle in, hug and kiss him goodbye and then cry the entire way home, the backseat entirely too empty.
Later, I would realize that I cried harder when my dog died than I did at Mom's funeral.
Having bent all of our spoons my mother finally bought an ice cream scoop.
As the belt loop on my pants broke at the rehearsal for my brother's wedding, my mother told me I was fat when I only weigh 110 pounds.
Mother marched me right back into the store where I had just shoplifted a small toy.
I didn't tell my mom when I got my period, even though I promised that I would.
My mother, being enraged, screamed "You son of a bitch", to which I replied, "Yes, I am."
After searching for a Gothic Lolita dress for two days and narrowing it down to six choices, my mother decided on another one I liked that I wasn't considering because it was out of the agreed upon price range.
The car was packed and loaded, and with tears in my eyes I hugged my son and said goodbye.
My mother took great delight in pointing out my shyness to strangers who were kinder to me than she ever was.
I wondered why I was having trouble grieving the death of my mother when the counselor figured out I had not grieved the death of HER mother only 12 years earlier.
I knew it was bad that day when my mother showed me her wrists, "I cut myself again."