Mothers

Mothers are interesting creatures. Take mine as an example. She is a saint, having raised three kids in a quite literally explosive environment. Nothing rattles her. Well, maybe I've seen her rattled once, just because my dad carelessly caught the backyard on fire with a tossed cigarette. She was so excited that it resembled a scene from a sitcom. We could only understand every third word. Imagine her consternation at our giggling while she's trying to tell us to dial 911 before the "G.d" house burns down. It's no wonder she's completely gray haired. Well, that and she is 70-something. Pesky detail.

But, I digress. Get used to it. It happens often.

My relationship with my dad is tenuous at best. While I'm the youngest and the only daughter, quite often a bat of the eyes, coy smile and a "Please Daddy?" will garner anything from an extended curfew to oh, a substantial loan to buy a new house. But with that I also get to enjoy guilt making that the normal mind cannot conceive.

A topic that was discussed during the most recent marathon conversation with my mom was my relationship with my dad and by extension my brother who is apparently made it his goal to be come my father. As you are probably well aware, the holidays are approaching. Bringing with them the joy that is family.

Yes, that is sarcasm.

When I expressed my Chandler Bing-esque dislike of Thanksgiving, my mom immediately surreptiously began to plot how we could minimize my interactions with my father and brother, inclusive of diabolically managing place settings & using my nieces as human shields.

Now that's a mom.