Love and Regrets

January 2005 - Best Friends

If you’re following this blog, and you know me, you know my mother and I were best friends. We even looked alike, and sounded alike. 

In pictures together, our features looked so similar but our coloring could have been fodder for a Benetton advertisement. She was dark, a Sabra, with long straight black hair, olive skin, dark eyes and freckles. I am beyond fair, with pale skin, blue eyes, freckles, and what has been referred to as Pre-Raphaelite red hair. I relish the moments when someone tells me I look just like her. She was ridiculously beautiful, so it’s a hell of a compliment.

Not only did we look alike. We thought alike. 

You know that one friend? The one you can have an entire conversation with just by exchanging glances? Where you pretty much have your own language and one look says it all? That one person that just gets you, even when you don’t get yourself? That was who my mother was to me. She was that friend.  My Mother was the one who sang my song back to me when I forgot the words. The one who called me on my shit and made me want to be a better and stronger person. The one who made me who I am today, quirks and all.

We were two peas in a pod. No one will ever know me better than my Mom did (although my Dad is getting there). She would start a sentence and I would finish it. Jokes were funnier when we told them, because we instinctively knew who would run with the punch-line. We would call each other multiple times a day, just to share “Oh my GOD, the funniest/craziest thing just happened!” We loved old movies, we loved shopping, we loved road trips, and we loved each other. She was the Amos to my Andy, the Bonnie to my Clyde, the Will to my Grace.

I’ve been thinking about our friendship a lot. I really miss her, and I won’t pretend tears haven’t been shed in the last couple of weeks, just because I wanted to talk to her and couldn’t. The biggest hurt comes when I want to pick up the phone and call my Mom. For one second, I anticipate how funny she’ll think my story is. And then I remember she’s gone. In that one nanosecond I am filled with hope. And then it dissipates as quickly as it came.

If you’re a woman reading this, you know that the Mother/Daughter relationship can be especially fragile and volatile. Our friendship, although mostly perfect, had many ups and downs. Some of those downs were brutal. When you love someone so very much, the hate stemming from an argument can be equally as strong. Sometimes I wasn’t easy to love, and sometimes, neither was she. In our most intense fights, we said things to each other no one should ever say. We would scream that we hated each other. We wouldn’t speak for weeks on end, even living under the same roof. We made each other miserable. And then we would make up, and forgive each other, promising never to fight again.

In a previous post, I mentioned that I have a few regrets in life. Everyone does, although we all run around waving the “Live With No Regrets” banner like we’re all free as birds. Right. It has taken me 10 tries to write this next bit without sounding like an asshole, but the truth of the matter is that those 10 tries forced me to accept that I WAS an asshole. 

When I found out my Mother was sick, I was angry. Anyone with a heartbeat would be. But I directed that anger at her. Just typing that out makes me nauseous. My mother was diagnosed with Cancer, and I wasn’t very nice to her. 

I can’t really explain why I did this, because frankly I’m still trying to figure it out. I caused her nothing but grief for over 6 months. I was demanding. I made her sickness about me. I didn’t want things to change. I fought her on everything. I made her cry. I am so ashamed, and I don’t know that I will ever be able to forgive myself for how horrible I was to her. She didn’t deserve it. I was in denial, I was terrified of what life would be like without her, and I fought my best friend instead of the illness itself. 

When someone emails you a long letter calling you out on how unpleasant you've been, you can delete it and rid yourself of any traces of your bad behavior. You can pretend that person is full of it, and deny any wrongdoing. You can rid yourself of any proof that someone knows how terrible you were. 

Now try getting that same letter from your Mother, who is dying of Cancer. 

She’s telling you how horrible you’ve been to her. How much you’ve hurt her. How she expected more from her daughter and best friend. It’s the last real letter you’ll ever get from her. You hate that she’s right. You’re embarrassed at what an asshole you’ve been. 

Now try and delete that letter. 

I have this inner turmoil every year: I re-read the letter, and I want so badly to delete it to make the regret and embarrassment go away, and I can’t. I can’t because if I do, I’m deleting a piece of her from my life.  Of the regrets I have in life, this is the one that I will battle for the rest of time. I hurt my best friend in ways unimaginable during what was the most terrifying ordeal for her.  And I can’t pretend it never happened, because I am the proof in the pudding.

Her letter was a wake-up call for me, and during the next year and some of her battle with Cancer, I stepped up to the plate and was the daughter and friend she needed me to be. I left my job and spent her last months with her, in the hospital, working to make her laugh every single day. I brushed her teeth, I changed her bedpan, I gave her a pedicure. I held her hand. I lay with her on her narrow hospital bed, and watched her as she slept. I loved her with my whole heart every single second. I left ME at the door, the way I should have when she was first diagnosed. 

About 6 days before she died, she had a friend and my Aunt take some dictation. She wanted to leave final letters for me, my Dad, and my Brother. I want to share these letters because they reassure me that I have been forgiven by the most wonderful woman I ever knew, and because they are precious to me. I can sleep because of these letters.

This was what was written to me, in two separate letters, one day apart:

May 5, 2006: “For my outstanding daughter, more beloved than she’ll ever know. You have surpassed my dreams of how wonderful you would ever be. You have been there for me in good times, the funny times, and the dark times. I’m luckier than I could ever expect to be. You are charming. You are thoughtful. And you love me so much and I love you and I hold you next to my heart forever, for always. I probably should have told you this more often but sometimes we get so busy with our daily lives, but never doubt my love for you.”

May 6, 2006: “I want to tell you, Amy, that you are my light. You are precious to me in every way. I adore you and the energy you put forth. Your kindness and love…all that means the world to me. I’m at a loss for words. We’ve had such good times together and I’ll always be with you. I have difficulty putting the right words down, but I know you’ll understand. If I have forgotten to mention certain things, you’ll hear me in the wind, the sounds of the fountains, and all that bring peace and beauty. I love you forever, Mom.”

I also share these letters with you because they are full of the things we should say NOW.

Tell the people you love that you LOVE them. Tell them they are special. Tell them you’re sorry. Be real and be honest. There are so few opportunities in life to tell the people you love how much they mean to you. 

Love your family. 

Hug your Mom.

Shoes, Glorious Shoes!

 

I wrote this in 2009. Given that Spring shoe-shopping is right around the corner, I thought this would be a proper post to welcome NEW SHOES:

Every time I go home to Montreal, it’s the same thing: Rushing to fit my friends and family into a tiny time frame. There aren’t enough hours in the day, and I always end up feeling guiltier about how short my visit was rather than how often I actually do visit. But hey, I’m Jewish. The guilt is genetic.

It’s always nice to go home and see that everything is the same as it was when I moved away five years ago. The same kitchen floor with the rub marks where our chairs have been for over 33 years, pushed away from the table as my brother and I rushed to play outside, talk on the phone, or get away from further parental questioning. IE. “Amy, are these YOUR rolling papers?” The same brick fireplace I ran into face first as a toddler, because I was dancing for the guests. The same sink where my father washes the dishes every night because he "does it better than anyone else”.

My old bedroom is now an office/guest room of sorts, with all of my mother’s art supplies, pictures she cut out, and selected quotes taped to her desk. I still take a look around and try to picture the way it was when I was a kid. I actually remember every single flower in the wallpaper my mother chose for my room, with matching linens and curtains. It was like living in a shrub: A large, all encompassing, dusty rose-colored shrub. Bless my mother, Laura Ashley, and the 1970s.

The house is big and warm. The rooms are the same, save for new furniture and appliances here and there. Of all of the rooms and all three floors, the place I like best in the house is where time stands still: My mother’s shoe closet.

When I was a little girl, I used to sit on the floor in her shoe closet surrounded by all of her shoes. I took great joy in trying them all on. Repeatedly. I organized them by color, by heel height, by season, and even sometimes by occasion. Surprisingly, I’m not actually OCD. My friends reading this may disagree. *ahem*

Each time I sat in her closet was different, and each time I would learn something new about my mother. I would ask her about the beautiful red satin Mary-Jane pumps (they made her feel like Dorothy), or I would tell her that her hand-made gladiator sandals were my favourite. There was always a story of a great sale, an impulse buy, or wedding she didn’t want to go to but really wanted to dance in her new shoes. She was a great dancer, and I always boogied with my Mom at family weddings.

On this particular visit home, I open my mother’s shoe closet, and look down at all of the shoes. Over a hundred pairs, easy. There are some in boxes, some strewn on the floor, some on a shoe rack. None of them have left the closet in a very long time. It has been over three years since she died, and when I go home, I still sit in my mother’s shoe closet. It’s where I feel closest to her, and where I remember her best. I don’t fit in there as well, and I have to shove some things aside to make room to sit. It’s in those few moments that I can still hear her voice, telling me about the sandals she wore on her honeymoon, the shoes she bought to feel like a movie star, or the boots my father bought her in Europe that she only wore once because they were “too nice”.

I can still see her face, smiling at me as I organized things and tried every single pair on, modeling them in her full-length mirror as though it was my job. Mostly, I feel like she is in the closet with me. In those moments, I feel like she’s still alive and my heart hurts just a little less.

My mother wore a size 5.5 shoe. I used to be able to wear them when I was a kid, but soon they were a half size too small.  Sometimes she would buy her shoes a size bigger so that we could share them. I learned from this extraordinary woman that love isn’t giving someone your last Rolo or French-fry: Love is buying the wrong shoe size so you can share them with your daughter.

After her funeral, her best friend pulled me aside and asked me for a pair of my mother’s shoes. I went through her closet, and found the pair my Mom liked best. They were far from stylish, but she wore them all the time. I mentioned this to the friend, saying they were probably really comfortable. 

Her response was that she wasn’t planning on wearing them. She just wanted to keep them at her front door, so that it would always feel like her best friend was visiting her.  Maybe I will do the same. There are so many to choose from, but the choice is clear: Dorothy, there’s no place like home.

In 2008, I wore my Mom's running shoes to do the 60km Weekend to End Breast Cancer.  They were a little too small, and I may have done permanent damage to my left big toe (shout out to my Podiatrist), but it meant she was with me. I walked in her shoes, and it was like she was by my side holding my hand the entire time.

I think about my own shoe collection sometimes, as a woman is wont to do, wondering what I was thinking when I bought 4 inch heels, or why I own 4 pairs of Chuck Taylor's. The truth is they all have a story and a life, just like my mother did.

Maybe the reason I am so obsessed with shoes, is simply because I LOVE them. Maybe it is because I just can’t resist a sale. I am a woman, after all. It’s how I’m programmed. 

Then again, perhaps it goes deeper than that, and it’s because I imagine what their story could be and want to be part of their adventure.

Or maybe they just remind me of the woman who taught me that the best way to determine if the shoe fits is to dance in them.

Be My Valentine

I am always a little sad on February 14^th.

It isn’t all because I don’t have a Valentine. I mean, I’m not the Queen of the Lonely Hearts Club, but I’d be lying to you if I didn’t admit that this sickly sweet holiday doesn’t make me feel a little low. There is something to be said for someone making you feel totally loved and appreciated. With perhaps a little sprinkling of dark chocolate (the good kind).

That being said, the hollow feeling in my heart is 80% because I miss the Valentine’s Days of years past. My mother made this day so special for my family, that it is hard to imagine it could ever be as good without her.

Every single Valentine’s Day for as far back as my memory goes, my brother and I would awaken to the sight of hearts and cupids, and chocolates galore strewn all over our rooms. Imagine that: Being a little kid, and opening your sleepy eyes to see a festival of pink and red hearts everywhere. Even the glass of water on my nightstand had a heart floating in it. I was awake and dreaming at the same time. When I moved to Toronto, she mailed me huge parcels of chocolate.

Just like our birthdays, we got cake for breakfast. Yeah, I know. Pretty awesome, right? My mother outdid everyone else. We never got just one single birthday card or Valentine: We got three or more cards, each one filled with more humour and love than the last one. And every year was better than the one before.

There was never any question about how much my mother loved us. Every single holiday was celebrated with such joy and heart. Even when she got sick, she made sure our birthdays were special. Less than a month before she died, she ordered a birthday cake to the hospital for me. She didn’t want me to feel like my day was any less special. In her hospital room, she sang Happy Birthday to me. It was the last time I ever heard her sing, her voice etched in my heart forever.

The lonely part of Valentine’s Day for me is that I have seen what true love looks like. My expectations might be unrealistically high, but I don’t want to settle. Life is too short and precious for lacklustre love. Truthfully, I cannot help but want what my parents shared. A friendship and love so full and real, it was like they were made for each other. No other partnering in the world would have made sense. There was something so special about how much my parents loved each other.

She was the funny girl to his straight man. Sometimes they switched roles. They played off each other in a way that was so effortless and so natural. Even as a kid, it was so easy to see that THAT was what marriage was supposed to be like.

When my mother got sick, my father was destroyed on the inside, just like my brother and I. But she never ever saw him crumble. When we cried, he held it together for us. When my mother went into the hospital for the final time, my father slept on a lawn chair next to her bed every night for nearly two months. When my mother was scared and in pain, he held her hand and kissed her forehead. And when she asked to be put into a drug-induced coma because the pain was uncontrollable, he let her go. They would have been married for 34 years.

On Valentine’s Day, I cannot help but think about what kind of person my someday Valentine will be. The holiday has been so clouded by commercialism it’s hard to see through the fog of candy hearts and bouquets of red roses. What it comes down to is this: The material things don’t matter. What matters is real and honest LOVE. What will matter to me is that my Valentine holds my hand when I’m scared, and picks me up when I am down. That he is golden-hearted and kind. And that he makes me laugh, even if there is nothing to laugh about.

This post is a tribute to just such a man. My father. The best man I know.

Monarch Butterflies

So you know about the Fish Tacos.

Here is where the Monarch Butterflies in my blog title come from....

For as long as I can remember, I have always stopped in my tracks at the sight of one particular butterfly: The Monarch. The stark contrast between the crisp white, searing orange and inky black of the wings have always held my attention. I used to draw them in school, coloring my orange and black crayons down to nubs, long before the other colours ran out.

I also used to only be able to draw with my tongue sticking out of my mouth. Don’t ask.

Spring and summers with my Mom always involved walks in our neighbourhood, eating banana popsicles, stealing lilacs and looking for Monarch butterflies. I still do all of those things, in case you were wondering. Right down to the lilac theft. If I could keep every tradition my mother and I shared alive, I would. Instead, I pick the ones that remind me most of her free-spiritedness, her sense of play...

Before she died, there was a moment shared between my mother and father, where she promised that she would come back to him as a Monarch butterfly. This was before I believed in signs. I didn’t think people could come back as anything. I was angry that I was losing her. All I wanted to hear from anyone was “we found a cure.”

After sitting Shiva and the mourning period was complete, my father was coaxed by close friends to play a round of golf. Most of his golf games had been with my mother at his side, cracking jokes and having a good time. I think she once injured a squirrel with one of her shots. This would be his first game without her. I clutched my cell phone the entire day, waiting to hear how his day had been, worried that it may have been too soon, and too difficult. This was our conversation when he called, late in the evening:

Me: “Hi Dad! How was your golf game? Were you okay to play alone?” (Yeah, I could have opened with something less blunt, I know.)

Dad: “I didn’t play alone. I played golf with my wife today.”

Me: “Um, what do you mean?”

Dad: “A Monarch butterfly sat on my golf bag for 18 holes.”

18 holes.

That’s an entire day.

That’s taking clubs out of your golf bag, and then putting them back in. That’s dragging your golf bag across a golf course for hours on end. That’s INSANE.

My mother had always been a woman of her word, but come on: 18 holes??

Following my father’s experience, I have been a more astute observer of when the Monarchs show up in my life. Once when I lost my job, one landed on my arm the moment I left the office, in the middle of the downtown core. When I visited the cemetery one summer, one flew right by my nose as I knelt to put some roses on her grave.

In the summer of 2010, my cousin lost her beautiful baby boy just 4 hours after he was born. There was no rhyme or reason to the loss. Her pregnancy had been healthy and perfect. Our family was devastated, trying to make sense of how such a tragedy could occur. When I visited the hospital, I learned that in the maternity ward, small notices are put on the doors to the rooms where a woman has experienced babyloss. Mostly so that nurses and visitors know to enter the room with increased compassion and sensitivity for the mother and father.

I walked down the corridor to my cousin’s room, noticing pictures of kittens or a rainbow on the doors. As I reached her door, I literally stopped in my tracks: On her door was a picture of a Monarch butterfly. It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen. I told her and her husband a few days later, a moment I am so blessed to have been able to share with two people I love very much.

There is no doubt in my mind that my Mom is ever present in the free and fluttering body of a butterfly. It is a constant reminder of how unique, special, and colourful she was.  And every spring and summer, I look forward to the return of the Monarch butterflies, wondering just where and when they will turn up.

Fish Tacos

I realize that the title of this blog is odd. Here’s how I got to Fish Tacos:

My mother was the best cook. Ever. It didn’t matter what she made, it was always amazing. Soups, elaborate 5-course meals, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Everything she created was delicious. She made a chocolate chip banana cake that was so perfect in its chip to cake ratio, people actually called her to request it for parties, or road trips that required a snack.

What was wonderful about her cooking was the joy and heart that went into it. She would dance around the kitchen to ABBA or The Beatles, singing her heart out, and cooking up a storm. Those are the moments I miss the most. I remember walking into the kitchen and having her grab my hand, spinning me around while singing “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road”. Hey, I never said she was appropriate.

When she was diagnosed with Cancer, she kept on cooking. It was her happy place, and she could zone out and not think about being sick for an hour or two. As the disease progressed, Chemotherapy and radiation made her feel sick and tired her out. Cooking for my Dad and brother became labourious, and the meals were harder for her to make. She decided then that she would make cooking easy and fun for herself, by bringing in pre-made processed foods. Not healthy, no, but it afforded her the ability to cook for the people she loved without maxing her out.

I would call her from Toronto (my family lives in Montreal), and ask her what was for dinner. It was our routine. I asked as though I was planning on showing up any minute, and she would dutifully respond with the evening’s menu, as though she had set a place for me. One night, I asked what she was making, and her response was: “I’m cooking my way through the colour palette. Tonight, we are having BEIGE.” Curious, I asked her what BEIGE food entailed, and it was the following:

1.    Tater Tots

2.    Egg Rolls

3.    Fried Rice

4.    Fish Sticks

There were also nights of other colours, but I will leave that with you to imagine. The GREEN evening was particularly gross.

About 6 months before she died, she fell in love with a meal she had created. She made it all.the.time: Captain Highliner fish sticks tossed in a taco shell with the standard taco fixings like guacamole, sour cream, cheese, salsa, etc.

When I called her to see what was on tap for the evening meal one night, she said “Fish Tacos”. My grown up response was obviously: “That’s disgusting.”

It became an ongoing joke between the two of us. When I called, she would tease me and say “We’re having your favorite tonight! Judi’s Fish Tacos!!” I would retch appropriately, making her laugh. When she went into the hospital for the final time, she asked me if I thought they made Fish Tacos. I told her I would make them for her, but never got the chance to do it. There will be a post in here someday about my few regrets in life, and that is definitely one of them. Less than 2 months later, she was gone.

When I returned to Toronto after sitting Shiva, my cousins took me to Buffalo for a weekend shopping trip, hoping to cheer me up and reintegrate me into my life with some serious retail therapy. We got up so early my eyes were burning. With our Tim Horton’s coffees in our hands, we sat in the parking lot at Target, waiting for it to open.

I sat in the back of the car, with my head pressed against the window, taking in my surroundings. Old run-down buildings, a hair salon, and an auto-repair place. Really nothing extraordinary.

That’s when I saw it: A small free-standing building, a restaurant, painted bright blue.

In red lettering, the restaurant’s name read: J’s Fish Tacos.

In the back of the car, between tears and laughter, my cousins heard me say "Hi Mom."

I couldn't explain to them why. I suppose I should send them this blog post....

Grief's Abyss

Loss comes in many different shapes and sizes, and every single solitary soul copes in a different way. Grief is like a fingerprint.

I coped with mine by pretending I was fine.

On the outside, I looked okay.

On the inside, I was completely destroyed, an empty shell.

Every day following my Mother's death was an exercise in futility. Everything was an obstacle, from walking the dog, to trying to do laundry. I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get out of bed. The loss was insurmountable.  I alienated everyone.  I tried not to cry, and held it in when I could. Somehow I convinced myself that crying was stupid because she was already gone, and I had not saved her.

What I type next may upset the people that love me. For that, I am truly sorry:

August 8, 2006: “I am no one anymore.  It doesn’t matter. My soul is dead. I can’t feel it, so it must be gone. My heart is just beating out of habit. I feel cold all the time. Everyone is looking at me and telling me they think I am strong. I hate it. I want to just scream to everyone that I fucking hate everyone and myself and to just leave me the hell alone already. I hate that I am still alive and she isn’t. It feels wrong that I am alive, when she was a better person than me.  I have locked myself in the bathroom a few times now. I drink wine while sitting in a hot bath, and wonder what would happen if I drank enough to drown. I wonder how much it would take. Yesterday I held a bottle of Advil in my hand, and tried to calculate how many I needed to take to kill myself.”

There is more, but that’s enough.  It was the lowest low I have ever experienced. I would be lying to you if I said that re-reading that journal entry did not rock me to the core. It's like someone else wrote that.

Eventually, my Dad became concerned with how low I was and pushed me to get help. It was only then that I began to really deal with the loss of my Mother.

If you are reading this right now, and dealing with recent or impending loss, please consider the following things. Learn from my mistakes:

1.       Do not pretend you are fine, you don't have to be anyone's hero.

2.       Let people love you and support you, don't push them away.

3.       Ask for help.

I still remember the first time I really and truly cried for my loss. Being honest with myself and talking to someone about my pain forced me to look at losing my Mom in a raw and open way, and it was only then that I cried the real hard tears of loss.

And it happened in a Winners changing room.

Almost a year after my Mother had died, I found myself in pieces while trying on clothing. Out of nowhere, I cried heart-wrenching sobs so painful and body-wracking that the people in the change rooms on either side of me came to see if I was okay. I did not stop crying for 45 minutes. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak.

When I got home, I went to bed and slept for 14 hours.

All of those tears that I had held in, the anger, the guilt, the pain, the depression….all of it came out in one huge overwhelming explosion.

Over 4 years later, I still get quite emotional when I think about my Mom. It's a given. The difference now is that I don’t feel the soul-crushing ache of loss as much as I do a ridiculous surge of joy and love. My heart explodes just remembering how amazing my mom was, and how lucky I am to have had 31 years with her as my very best friend. Choosing those feelings over the dark ones is easy now. I have a lot to live for.

I could not have pulled myself out of those dark months alone, and I know that. To the friends and family that stood by me even when I pushed them away, there aren't enough words to thank you for loving me. 

I am still here because of you.

Party Princess

It is important that I share the great as well as the devastating, so that a true picture is painted. As my friend Sarah commented in the last post, the greatest love breeds the deepest grief. Anyone who met my mother was instantly in love with her outgoing sunny personality, her gorgeous smile, and her insane sense of humour. If anyone lit up a room, it was my mother. Losing her was like the sun had just fizzled out.

There was always a great deal of hilarity that ensued with my mother. I don’t even think there are words to really describe how pee-in-your-pants funny my Mom was, because those words don’t exist in our lexicon.

Of course as a teenager, I definitely didn’t think she was so funny. Now 20 years later, I appreciate the genius of her sense of play and mischief.

When I was a few weeks shy of my 16^th birthday, I begged my mother for a Sweet Sixteen party. And by beg, I mean: “Mom you’re horrible if you don’t make me a party and I will hate you forever, and everyone else is having one so why can’t I have one, you’re so mean if you tell me I can’t have a party.”

I was a very reasonable teenager.

Wonderful and tolerant woman that she was, my Mother humoured me and confirmed she would make me a party. I was allowed to invite 5 friends over for my birthday dinner. Anyone who knows me knows I immediately negotiated. I wanted 8 friends, AND I wanted to have music. She rolled her eyes and agreed. I was a really tough customer.

As an aside, I think that was a pretty fair negotiation. I’m pretty sure if I was turning 16 tomorrow, the ask would be for 400 friends, a plethora of Cirque du Soleil acrobats hanging from the ceiling, and a red velvet cake the size of Iowa.

I dreamed about my party. I talked about it every day for 2 weeks. I drove my family crazy. On the day of the party, I helped my Mom put up balloons. I was so excited and couldn’t sit still. An hour before the guests were to arrive I went to look at the table. And that’s when the shit hit the fan.

What 16 year old Amy should have said: “Mom! That looks awesome! You’re the greatest!”

What 16 year old Amy actually said: “Those napkins are ugly. I want the special occasion napkins.”

My mother looked at me. I looked at her. It was a stand-off, and I was determined to win. After a lethal staring contest, she acquiesced and said: “Okay, you can have the special occasion napkins.”

I walked out of the room so proud of myself that I hardly noticed the emphasis she had put on the word SPECIAL.

Soon, the doorbell began to ring, and my friends were ushered in. I was so excited to see my friends that I didn’t once think of the table.  We all walked into the kitchen for dinner, and that’s when I saw what would be humiliatingly etched in my mind forever:

On the table, which was perfectly set, were “special occasion” napkins indeed. Maxi Pads. Always brand Maxi-Pads. Huge, thick, cottony sanitary napkins. She had carefully un-wrapped each pad, peeled off the paper backings, and stuck them firmly to the table, in place of a regular napkin. Each place setting had one, with a fork and knife carefully placed on top.

Naturally I freaked right out.

My mother, laughing at the prank she had just played on her obnoxious child, smirked and said: “Oh, aren’t those the special occasion napkins you wanted?”

It was clear to me in that moment that my mother was the master of practical jokes and searing wit - and I should know better than to mess with her ever again.