because I’m your mother, that’s why

by ck on April 22, 2014

It’s my fault. All of it. The fact that we’re even sitting here having this conversation could’ve been avoided, but here we are, and it’s on me. If only I’d understood how parenting really worked before deciding not to be a hypocrite who shot out pat, pre-recorded answers. If only I hadn’t explained the truth and “whys” of everything, I wouldn’t have over-informed you, and led you to believe you were grown-up. Because you’re not. And you need to obey what I tell you, not just consider it. So you know what? We’re starting over. Right here, right now. In Applebees.

Why can’t you eat your lunch under the table?

Because I’m your mother, that’s why.

Why will I send you to a booth on the other side of the restaurant if you don’t stop whining?

Because I’m your mother, that’s why.

Why is my hair “poofy” and not straight like yours?

Because I’m your mother, that’s why. (BTW: hiding next to my friend won’t get you the straight hair she has. Better start imagining yourself  with “the poof,” my dear, ’cause you’re sitting across the table from your future.)

Why will it never be okay to say “who cares?” to one of my friends after she mentions how much she loves her new smart phone, even though you swore you weren’t talking to her, but to your sister, who taught you the phrase in the first place?

Because I’m…Stop interrupting me. The reason I’m turning red is because your behavior is always a reflection of me. I work hard to keep you polite and respectful and then you blow it with two words and…I did it again. Ugh. I mean, because I’m your mother, that’s why.

Why don’t I ever give you anything you want including dessert at restaurants after lunch, playdates when we’re three states away from your friends, and the chance to come out drinking with me and friends the night before?

Because I’m your mother, that’s why.

Why am I not famous? (Really? Do you even know what that means?)

See also the answer above.

What do you have to buckle yourself in because I’m clutching my dress to keep it from Marilyn Monroe-ing in the parking lot? What “difference does it make” if my dress flies up and flashes my underwear to everyone driving by? Why “would anyone care” because “it’s plain and black and boring”?

People would care. Everyone would care. Why? Because I’m your mother, it’s all I’ve got left and I’d like to still believe it, that’s why.

Why do I get to have another java chip frappiccino before our 4-hour trip home where I’ll have to listen to your movies (which are playing just behind my head), and to your arguing when it’s time to “agree” on the next one, and I’ll have to stay awake at the wheel so I don’t crash your head along the side of the road, even though I slept with you last night and you drove my head into the the wall?


(And no, you can’t just have the whipped cream off the top, so don’t ask.)




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