Pot Pouri
When you were younger, do you remember when Mom would hold your hand in those expensive stores?
Those stores with glass and porcelain things everywhere- those places that usually reak of pot pouri and grandmother.
Pissed me off.
Why Mom? Why can't I have my hands to myself? Why must you hold them? All I want to do is touch the shiny things, Mom. Just let me touch the shiny things!
In retaliation, all I wanted to do was "accidentally" stumble into a nice diamond encrusted unicorn figurine. And then maybe jump across the laser barrier in front of the door- instantly gratifing my urges for noise.
Although... I think my Mom stopped holding my hand in stores at a crucial point in my development. Had she let go sooner, my family might still be in debt. Any longer, and I would be an emo/death metal kid.
Food for thought: What are your innermost desires when you see something fragile?
*
Precisely. Blame Mom.
posted by Dave Swift @ 12:04 AM
4 comments
4 Comments:
Here's how I remember it. Never being a fan of knick-knacks, you and I didn't venture into those stores that sell diamond encrusted unicorns. Now what we often did was go "junkin" into antique stores. And yes my darling boy, I did hold your hand so you wouldn't break those expensive goodies. But here's a lesson for you, I'm still holding you hand but from a distance. I can still feel those tiny fingers in my palm and I'm not sure I'll ever totaly let go cause letting go is the hardest thing I've ever done as a Mom. But I think Dad and I have done that job well because you are an incredible young man who seems to be making it pretty well on his own these days.
Hope the Cuban was good but I think you should have saved it for a once in a life time event.
Love,
Mom
Let that be a lesson for you, Swifty.
The sooner you get over the fact your mom did her job, and did it pretty darn well, the sooner you can be the person she held your hand to help you be.
PS. I am not your mom.
And I bet Jeff's Mom still has that monkey on her back!
Jeff does look like a monkey.
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