In honor of Mother’s Day, I present to you a series of pictures of my mom and I. Many of these were taken during my 15-year “awkward phase.” (Some would argue my “awkward phase” continues to this day.)
Look at the expression my oldest sister Debi’s face. She knows this isn’t going to end well. My mom clearly is still on the good drugs the hospital gave her.
I hated this bedroom with the passion of a thousand fiery burning suns. The walls are pink, the carpet is PINK, the bedspread is pink, and dear gods my nightgown is effing pink. We moved into this house when I was 7 and both my sisters got to choose their bedroom colors, but I did not. As an adult, I asked my mother why, and I swear on all that’s holy that she actually said “All little girls like pink.” This little girl would like to point out that “pink” and “puke” share two letters, and that she is not, and has never been, like “all little girls.”
The only things I loved in this picture were my leopard print woobie (which I still have) and my mommy (which I also still have).
I am amused how everything in the photo is tilting: my mom, myself, the picture above us, and the lampshade. And that my mother and I have the exact same facial expression.
Why am I even posting this picture? This is also 1978, and I wanted a Dorothy Hamill haircut, and that is a bowl cut, which is not what I requested. I’m also unhappily wearing pink. I hate the world. My mother’s expression clearly is “Yeah, I don’t know what happened with this one, either.”
That there is a pumpkin-shaped cake. Did I make that cake? I’m either really fond of it, or about to swipe it onto the floor. (This is like a Choose Your Own Adventure Game photo. What do you think happened next?)
With my sister Donna, in 1982, so I’m a disaffected 16-year-old who would rather be elsewhere. (“Elsewhere” likely being Narnia or Middle Earth.) And I would rather not be wearing those awful coulottes that I did not choose for myself. I did love that brown courderoy blazer, though.
That fuchsia color looks great on my mom, and I’m not just saying that show off that I know how to spell fuchsia.
Note that we are standing on a slope, which is why I look the same height as my sister and my mother, who are significantly shorter than me. I suspect they orchestrated that while I was being disaffected. Dammit!
I didn’t mean to make this about me, but this is 1990 and my hair is freaking awesome and it’s the Sunday of a writers’ conference and I’m exhausted. Clearly my mother got more sleep than I did. I’m glad she finds that amusing.
I’d forgotten about that ring on my thumb until now. What happened to that ring? I really liked it. Crap.
I’m not in this picture (I may have taken it, though). 1985, and look at my mom being that badass waterskier! Go Mom!
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you despite the pink, and that’s saying something.