Mysteries of My Mother (by Rachel)

Mysteries of My Mother; Solved

While I was growing up, I thought my mom was great. Don't get me wrong, I still think my mother is a wonderful person. But the qualities I was amazed by as a child are not exactly the same qualities I find all that impressive today. For example, my mother could drive a car while drinking a Diet Pepsi, changing the radio station and shift into second gear at 5,000 RPMs all the while yelling at my brother and I to "quit looking at each other." She was magical. Other than finding my mother to be amazing, I also thought she was extremely mysterious. My mom did a number of things that I found absolutely puzzling. Let me start with grocery shopping. First let me explain something about my mom. She was usually very mild tempered, and generally in a fine mood. It seemed that she would have an occasional bad day, full of terrifying looks directed at my brother and I, and lots of snappy words and hissing. For some reason beyond my comprehension, these were the days that she chose to go grocery shopping! Now, why would she choose a day of such an unpleasant mood to go out into the public with my brother and I to get food for the family? Mind boggling. Now, after years of intrigue, I have solved this mystery. One day, while I was dragging my screaming two-year old across the filthy floor of our local grocery store, and pushing a cart full of both food I had selected, and food that my sneaky daughter had hid somewhere in the pile of melting dairy products and bags of crushed dry noodles, it dawned on me. My mother didn't choose to go grocery shopping on the days that she happened to be breathing fire! She was breathing fire BECAUSE she was grocery shopping with two kids!! AH-HAH! This point was made undeniable clear to me when I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the freezer section's glass doors. All evidence of that morning's showering, grooming and deoderizing were gone. I could see my unkempt hair, melting makeup, clothes suddenly damp with flopsweat. I struggled to balance my broken-strapped purse between my hip and the maverick-wheeled shopping cart, my daughter clinging to two of my sweaty, fatigued fingers while she continued to cry uncontrollable about not getting a toy filled with lead out of the machines at the front of the store.
I thought back to that morning, before we left the house. I was content, getting Em's hair into cute blonde pigtails, and then happily loading my new purse with extra wipes and some crackers. NOW. My eyes were fire engine red; and everything on my person was an easy 1500 degrees. Suddenly my hair was too much to bare, and because I didn't have a hair clip or anything, I carefully pulled all my hair into a bun shape. Then I strategically placed the adhesive side of a new maxi pad into place, suspending my hair into a makeshift bun. People were already looking at us, okay? I realized right then; I was my mother. Breathing fire, throwing canned good from one aisle into the other where the God forsaken cart sat, simply in the interest of saving time. Grabbing whiney children by the arm until you could hear the flesh bruising, only to realize that they were not in fact your children. Once Em and I got back to the car (both of us alive; surprise!!) I shoved our broken bags of pathetic groceries, which I now question that we ever needed them in the first place, into the car. Em quickly got herself buckled, and I think I heard her tell her teddy bear that she was glad to see him again, and that she never wanted to go to the "dark scary food place again." I got out my cracker crumb-covered cell phone, and called my mom.
"Hello?" she answered.
"Grocery. Shopping." I hissed.
"Oh," she said knowingly. After a moment of silence, I think I heard her smile with morbid intrigue, "How did it go."
"Well," I looked at Em in the backseat, who looked at me like I was a seven headed dragon.
"Em's still alive. I'm pretty sure I threw a frozen chicken at a cashier, and I have a femine hygiene product in my hair."
Only evil cackling from the other end of the line.
So, I now see that like my mother, I, too have faults. I have mysteries that my daughter may not solve until she becomes a mother herself. I can only hope that she can survive my fire breath and face-melting looks of rage as we manuever through the aisles of a supermarket. I look foward to the day that she calls me to describe the pain of shopping with a toddler, so I can let out an evil cackle. An evil cackle that says, "Vengance is mine," and "I feel for you." But, mostly says, "I'm glad its not me!"