Conversations With My Mother

I'm very close with my mother. It has never been the sitcom-fantasy relationship and neither of us have ever wanted it to be. For one, I stopped listening to her properly when I was three. Two, she apparently can't ever understand what the fuck I'm talking about. And three, I am her least favorite (out of two, so at least I'm not further down the rungs). Conversations like this are why.

My sainted, forgetful mother emails me wanting to know the details of her watching the kids for the upcoming ECCC. These are details I've already told her about six times starting many moons ago. I email her back, tease her about it a bit and say yes. She tells me she forgot and asks when. I reply with this:

That's why they make pencils and papers and calendars!! :P Friday morning at 7ish, let me figure out if he wants the whole weekend off from life before class starts up again Monday, but definitely Sunday night where I'll pick them up at a convenient time of your choosing Monday morning before you two need to be at work.

I feel as if this is mostly plain English, considering she knows all the details and who I mean when I say 'he'. But this is the way I've always spoken to my Mom.

Always.

Her reply is succinct:

Why is it that you speak another language? That made no sense to me at all! Are you saying friday at 7ish AM? Please to speak "momese"

She wounds me deeply and I inform her so. I also tell her 'yes, Friday' and remind her I've always talked like this. In turn, she comments on how 'no wonder no one knows what the hell you're talking about' and also, she'd like to know what time Friday. Yes. Even though I've already told her, twice now, she's asked me again. And apparently she's never understood me.

I feel like my answer sums up our entire relationship perfectly:

Comment 7-7:30? Je vais mettre des beignes et du café comme un pot de vin, si vous le souhaitez. Je t'aime aussi, maman.

No, Mom can't read French. And yes, I just used Google Translation. I don't remember a lot of my French but I'm pretty sure I asked her if I could put pastries and coffee in the wine jug. She will hopefully never find out I've blogged this conversation. I love you, Mom. Please don't friend me on Facebook.


All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his. ~Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, 1895