My Mudda

She's a nice lady. I like hanging out with her. I like to call her numerous times a day just to tell her stuff like "I've discovered apple jelly and there's no turning back."  She likes to call me after she's gone somewhere new for dinner so she can describe to me in detail everything she ate. Once, she ended up at an NRA event for women and she spent more time explaining the variety of meats and cheeses they had on the buffet than how she even ended up at such an event.

She hates having her picture taken. And she will probably want to have words with me after she sees that I've posted her picture for all the world to see.  She will forgive me, just like all the other times.  The worst offense was when she so graciously came to help me for two weeks after Bear Cub was born. I was so full of pregnant hormones that I "allegedly" told her her hair looked stupid (amongst other verbal travesties). And apparently I was so mean the entire two weeks (that I begged her to come for) that she was crying tears of joy on the way to the airport. On the way there, I proceeded to tell her that she didn't think she was going to get off scott free from dealing with a monster daughter? That she had it easy during my teenage years. Now it was just her turn. Then she got on the airplane and I cried for two whole hours.

I was thinking about that time as I dropped her off at the airport this morning. So I verbally vomit on her the entire ride hoping she would be so engrossed in whatever came out of my mouth that she wouldn't remember that terrible event. I think it worked, because she was not crying.  That or she was just so nervous about making her connecting fight in Hotlanta that she couldn't focus on my past transgressions. Either way, she's nice and I'm glad she's My Mudda.