What’s My Age Again
I called my mom over the weekend to wish her a safe and fun trip to visit her in-laws. She’ll be in Arizona (or, as she says it, “Air-eee-jone-uh”) for a few days before driving over to Las Vegas for a few days of gambling and shenanigans. During our chat, I heard the usual complaining about Meechygan‘s horrible winter before Mom transition to a new topic. During virtually every conversation with my mom, the conversation will inevitably shift in one of two directions: either praise for her children or gripes about them.
I held my breath and waited to hear how this particular phone call would go, and to my relief, my Mom said, “Kurt [her husband] think all my kids soooo smart and bright.”
Me: “Well that’s nice of him to say.”
Mom, happy: “He say I have good kids. Smart kids.”
Me: “Are his kids nice too?” I’ve never met my stepbrothers, but apparently I have two of them.
Mom: “Oh yeah, good boys.”
Me: “How old are they?”
Mom: “Ummm, 24 and 25. No, 26.”
Me: “Ah, okay.”
Mom: “…how old are you? You 26, right?”
Me, laughing and sighing because I can’t believe we’re doing this again: “I’m 27, Mom.”
Mom: “Twenty sev-en?!”
Mom, with a hint of incredulous disappointment in her voice: “Re-bec-caaaaa…” I could actually picture her shaking her head and frowning, as if it were my fault I turned a year older last August instead of staying in a suspended state of mid-twenties because I know it would please her.
Me: “Mom, we had this exact conversation on my birthday.” I started to wonder if she was experiencing some sort of Asian strain of Alzheimer’s, where she forgets details like my age and my boyfriend’s last name but remembers to criticize my weight and nag me to visit my sister more often.
But to my surprise, she responded:
Mom: “I know. I guess I just don’t want my baby to grow up…because you my baby! My youngest child!”
Sometimes these phone conversations with my mom don’t turn out how I expect…