The Madness of My Mommy

21 02 2014


I never really had a bond with my mother. In fact, I’m sure I never came out of my mother’s womb but out of her butt… ’cause I was always treated like a piece of poop! 

As children, we all want our moms to be kind, loving, and encouraging, and to raise us with care and patience. After all, mothers share the huge responsibility of nurturing us into adulthood, helping build our confidence and shaping our perspectives on life. But what if our moms are not like Mrs. Cunningham from “Happy Days” or Marge Simpson from “The Simpsons”? What if, like me, you were raised by a SCARY mommy?

My mother was so clueless about looking after kids that she assumed that a neighbor’s suggestion to treat us to some “dessert” meant that she should “abandon” us to spend more time at the local pub.

When my brother cut his knee open from roller skating at around age 9, my mom was the only one having stitches… from her continuous laughter. Finally, she did manage to phone my dad at work for help, although as a college teacher in the electrical industry, I’m not quite sure what she expected him to do… invent some sort of electrotherapy device to dull the pain? Well, I think my mother was already as dull as a brush when it came to thinking on her feet.

She assumed the best way to clean out my fish tank was to let the neighbor’s cats do the work on the back patio… whilst the goldfish were still in it. Hence to say, I often became dismayed at the number of lifeless fish heads floating around the top of the tank after I got home from school. Upon questioning her motives, she would aggressively reply that the dirty water had turned the goldfish rusty anyway.

My mom was also extremely forgetful at times. When I was about 6 years old, she neglected to do the laundry and sent me to school wearing a pair of her panties. They were far too big and to my horror they fell down in front of everyone in the school cafeteria. It’s the only time I’ve ever dropped my drawers in an establishment that offered spotted dick (pudding) on the menu.

I wish my mother could have paid as much attention to me as she did on her own appearance. She was so vain that even her mirror used to sigh with complete exhaustion. Granted, she was attractive but alas there was no makeup in her cosmetic case to conceal her narcissistic tendencies. Even her hair styling tools could not brush away her total self-centeredness. She is a product of her own childhood and I will need to accept this unfortunate fact. However, that won’t stop me from poking fun at some of her antics.




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