Each year when I head home for the holidays, I begin to feel like I am in one of those sappy romantic comedies. You know....the one about the woman who has moved away from home and must endure going home for the holidays, putting up with her family's crazy antics because she is so obviously sane... Okay, well it's not EXACTLY like that. First of all, I never end up with the handsome guy who has been pining after me for all those years and comes after me when he discovers I have come home. Ha!!! No such luck. Does that stuff actually even happen? Secondly, unlike the girl in the movies, I actually like many parts of going home for the holidays. I love my family. (no, really, I do) I also love seeing old friends. However, all of this is not without a lot of stress, which brings me to my original statement of feeling like "that girl."
I normally go home several times a year, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Spring Break, and once or twice in the summer. If you're my mother, you think that's not enough. From my perspective, it's 2 times too many. And I always drive....(there's a method to that madness.) Driving allows me the flexibility of leaving when the going gets tough. There, I said it. I know, I'm weak, I admit it. When the going gets tough, I bail. I recall actually leaving on Christmas morning once. Yeah, yeah, seems harsh, I know. But you don't know my mother. She could make anyone flee, though she seems genuinely and honestly oblivious to this fact. (Besides, I never saw such little traffic on the Belt Parkway!!!)
Don't get me wrong, I love my mother. She means well. But she's Italian. And Catholic. Do you see where this is going? If you looked in the dictionary at the word martyr, my mothers picture would, in fact, be there. No, really, go look. Now. See? She was there wasn't she? I've never actually looked, but I am fairly certain she's there. My mother tries very hard not to burden me with her woes when I visit. She realizes that I am not home often, and I want to believe she wants me to have a stress free trip. She can't help herself though. A potentially nice conversation with her normally goes south within about 4 minutes. In some ways I have only myself to blame. There are some things you should never ask my mother. Here is a partial list: How are you mom? How are you feeling, mom? How is your husband, mom? How is work, mom? and never ever ever say the "N" word in front of my mother. (the "N" word being the first inital of my son's name) These are definitely loaded questions that will be met by "the truth according to my mother." I tell myself I am not going to ask these questions (these being only a partial list, mind you) but somehow they come out (and I am usually regretting it long before the question has fully come out.)
Drugs would help, I am sure. The problem is, I don't do drugs. I could drink heavily. Nope!! Don't do that either. I need to find an outlet....oh yeah, I forgot....I think that's why I'm blogging. hope you enjoy
