My mom is a creature of habit. If I had to, I could sit down right now and write a list of all the things she will do today, in a very specific order, including specific details like the way she blows her nose, talks to the dog and scratches her lower back while she walks into the bathroom after she first wakes up. I could tell you that she will make coffee, walk into the living room, click a light on, light a candle, pick up a book and a notebook and sit down on the couch. I could tell you what she eats for breakfast: cereal, and how she makes it: overloading the bowl to the point of spilling. I could tell you that when I was growing up, Monday was sheet changing/house cleaning day, and Friday was getting hair done at the beauty parlor day. I could tell you that she likes to say that she is a creature of habit, a creature of habby, a creature of habby-habs.
I don't ever say habby habs.
Mom, yes you do.
No I really don't.
Mom, trust me.
Well... I don't remember.
She does the same thing every day. That's all I'm saying. In spite of this, or maybe because of it, I am not a creature of habby habs. I don't even like to sleep on the same side of the bed two nights in a row. Or I mean I never did. But now, I'm beginning to-- well, that's not what I'm writing about right now. What I'm trying to say is that the weird thing about all this is that the main images I have of my mom, those frozen pictures in my head that pop up when I think of her, the sounds that loop over and over and over, are all based on an element of surprise: a gasp, a laugh and a sneeze, and have nothing to do with being predictable at all.
My Mom's birthday was yesterday. Say Happy Birthday, everyone!
Happy Birthday Everyone!
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