I’d tell you how I struggle to be a good mother and you’d nod, understanding. You’d fret over the time you are away from your kids and I’d remind you that sometimes distance equals sanity. We would both agree that ‘mommy guilt’ is the worst part of being a mother. You would tell me that your parents are well and that the in-laws are coming to town in two weeks and you’d ask if I’d make my red velvet cupcakes. You’d ask how my parents were doing, knowing that it’s been a worry of mine. I’d update you on my father’s progress and divulge how worried I am that my mother takes on too much. I would tell you that I wish they lived closer; you would quickly remind me that it’s a lot closer than Mississippi.
To lighten the mood I would quickly change the subject to my recent addictions on Netflix and we’d laugh at the validity ‘That 70’s Show’ still has in our daily lives. You’d laugh when I tell you I want to be Kitty when I grow up and Cheetah says he want to be Fez. We both sigh (secretly worrying about the teen years that lie ahead of us both) when I mention how I hope that Cheetah wants to bring his friends to our house to hangout.
I’d ask what your plans are for the weekend and you’d mention the spring cleaning you really need to get done. I’d present the idea of both of us doing your house one weekend and mine the next; we set a time, I promise to bring my iPod and you grin knowing that means we’ll spend half the time dancing to old ‘booty music’.
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