“Your father says you wrote a blog entry, yesterday,” my mother offered.
My mother seldom inquired about my blog as my father had long-ago forbidden her to read it. Still, the narcissism propelling my ongoing attempt at internet validation piqued her interest, every fair to fair.
“Yep,” I answered.
“Block over?” she followed.
“Only time will tell. Seems so for the moment, however,” I casually replied.
“Anything interesting?” she asked.
“Nope. Not particularly,” I answered. “ More humdrum meanderings about my romantic life and personal convictions.”
“What romantic life?” she snapped.
“Precisely, my dear Watson.”
My mother contributed one of her long, resigned sighs. The kind she reserved exclusively for her only child who would never give her grandchildren. “For the life of me, I don’t know how you came to be so cynical.”
“Oh?” I responded, my voice full of mock surprise. “Not exactly a sunny rainbow of starbursts and ju ju bees, over there, Sweetness.”
My mother’s reply was swift. “There was love in our home! There IS love in our home. I bet your readers would like to hear about that, for once. Instead of all this ‘I’m not getting married’ foolishness.”
I was certain my mother could feel the strength of my eye-roll from the backwoods North Carolina farm from whence she’d called. “I never said I wasn’t getting married, Smitty.”
“Well, are you?” she asked saucily.
“I’d sooner chew off my foot.” I replied.
“You are so unbelievably negative. I can hardly stand it.” I could sense the irritation in her voice. We had, after all, had this very conversation one thousand times.
“Negative? I’m PRO- love. I’m PRO-marriage. It’s because I respect them so much that I bitch. These are serious things that people enter into blindly; with little more consideration than one selects a window treatment.” I hoped my impassioned rationale would calm her before she suggested I sire a bastard.
Battle worn and wary, my mother relented. “It takes me a long time to pick out window treatments.”
“Well you, Madame, are a member of a very distinct minority. Besides. You’re a snob,” I teased.
“Do something for me?” my mother asked abruptly.
I sighed, then. Nothing good could come from this. “Yes, Mommy?”
“Just this once, write something nice about love. Do it for your Mother.”