It's my mom's birthday today. I always have a difficult time buying a gift for her because, really, what does a 76-year-old woman need/want?
The only thing I know she wants is for me to call more often. But whenever I call, the first 10 minutes of the conversation is her berating me for not calling more often.
Mom, you're not helping your cause here.
I got every ounce of my maternal instinct from my mom. All 3 of them. Is it any wonder that I have raised a child whose first concern upon waking in the middle of the night with a bloody nose, is for the sheets? I distinctly remember the rhetorical question from my own childhood, "Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of fabric?" Now I do.
We all inherit a little bit (or a lot) of crazy. I have chosen to pass it down to Punkinhead in its most undiluted state.