Ma

I was a little too old for this morning routine, and a lot too stupid to never question it.

7:00 AM - My mom makes her way towards my room for a preliminary wake up call. I am so accustomed to this that I unconsciously start to peel myself out of my dreamy state as her footsteps approach my door.

7:10 AM - My mom comes into my room for another wake up call. A little more urgency in her voice, a little more consciousness in mine. She asks what I want to eat for breakfast, and I reply the usual: banana milkshake. She asks what I want to eat for lunch, and I reply the usual: I don't care.

7:30 AM - My mom comes into my room for the last and final wake up call. I moan and I groan, feeling as though I was being damned to Satan. (Thank God I wasn't one of those dramatic teens).

8:00 AM - I grudgingly slump down the stairs to find her making my lunch.  I sip on my just-now prepared banana milkshake and glare at the boring sandwich filled with freshly washed and recently cut vegetables. She never did this the night before for fear of compromising the taste. After cleanly cutting the crust off, she packs the delicate concoction in aluminum foil and then in a plastic bag. This bothers me even more - TWO layers to peel off? How annoying! She then carefully picks only the reddest grapes off the stems, and pats them dry on a paper towel. My brown paper bag is now complete with a box of orange juice, a water bottle wrapped in a separate plastic bag so that the condensation doesn't get anything wet, a sandwich, and fruit.

8:05 AM - I am pissed. All I want to do is shove greasy french fries and millions of cookies down my throat like a normal high schooler. Why am I guilt-tripped into taking this lunch everyday? I concoct a plan to give parts of my lunch to various friends throughout the day. That way the food doesn't go to waste, and I get the fatty foods I am entitled to.

8:07 AM - I decide I am a genius.

I was right, you know. You would probably act the same way if your mom was crazy like mine. So crazy that she couldn't stand the thought of me having to use the ounce of muscle strength it would take to rip the crust off. So, so crazy that she believed her food was unworthy unless it was so fresh that the juices needed to be held in by two layers of protection. So INCREDIBLY crazy that when she wasn't able to do this for me on that one blue moon a year, she would line up all the ingredients on the table so that all I had to do was put them together.

I think about how many years I went on like this. A self-proclaimed martyr, "dealing" with the fact that my mom loves me so much that it drives her absolutely crazy. It took me much too long to realize this, because she was a sneaky little minx. She wasn't big on the 7th Heaven-style "I LOVE YOU BABY"'s. She instead packed her sacrifices, thoughtfulness, and dedication into these tiny little morsels of love that I never let my taste buds experience properly. And now, there are no amount of sorry's I can say to make it up to her. What I can do is remember - constantly, potently, painfully - everything she has done and everything she will continue to do for me.

There are things that we will never see eye-to-eye on, Ma, but know that you are the Queen of my heart. Every time I chop up vegetables, I see your pink nightgown grazing against the kitchen counter. When I Swiffer the floors of our house, I think of your calloused feet walking faithfully between the rooms. And when I feel myself becoming lazy, I imagine your relentless love that isn't finished with the world - now being injected into your newest granddaughter.

If the apocalypse comes and I someday decide to have children, I hope they are bratty. I really hope they are the worst possible human beings ever. I'll smirk and say a quiet thank you to karma, because I'll finally be getting what I deserve for treating the world's biggest CareBear like just another stuffed animal.

Writing Prompt, 2

Dear Dream Guy,

Are you out there, sweatpants-wearing, messy-haired boy? If you are, please holla at your homegirl. I promise to love the tailored-fit black suit in your closet. The one that only comes out when both you and I are feelin’ real fancy. Don’t worry - I promise I’ll love the scrubs you rock way more.

You get to me when you say thank you and smile at the cashier in that way. You know, the way that makes your skin wrinkle by your eyes in the shape of crow’s feet. The smile that reaches up to your large, gleaming pupils that tear into mine like a pleasant tornado.

If you exist, I know that you care about the world, but don’t take it too seriously. You recycle and help strangers, but you also laugh - a lot. And when you aren’t, you’re making me laugh - even more. Lost luggage? Whatevs. Late arrivals? All good. You hop, skip, and jump through our days with an inflatable energy that bounces me to the sky.

Know that because you have no societal shame, I'll egg you on. You don't notice when people stare and I'll smirk because I don't care. Naturally, we look like a couple of goons walking hand in hand– mine adorned with neon green fingernails, yours with a giant scrunchi from the 1980’s.

For a guy, you're not really a "guy." You love midnight coffee-time and unsexy pillow-talk about things we can change and things we can’t. Maybe, if I’m really lucky, you’ll study my face as hard as I study yours when you wake up last.

If you are out there, dreamy boy, make yourself known. Until then, I’ll be here. Chillin. Waiting for the day when I’m walking down a deserted street and accidentally bump into a scrubby boy who giggles through his squinty-eyed smile with a “Sorry! Didn’t see you there!”, somehow still managing to keep his latte intact.

Flash Forward

I walked past the Quad today and saw men constructing a stage. After a brief moment of confusion, my gut plummeted: Graduation.

I pictured the Commencement day that I would miss. All of our friends like an army - in uniforms that matched each other, but didn't match the images we have of them in our minds. The rest of us on the periphery - looking around wondering when it will happen to us, trying not to trip in their hand-me-down shoes that are too big for us to fill.

I pictured the hugs and the tears, and the half-hearted words of consolation. No, it won't be the same. We won't be able to lie around watching Bridesmaids while we paint our nails in the midday sun instead of going to class. There will be no more nights where "I'm just gonna stay in .... actually #YOLO LET'S DRINK." Gone are the days that we spend midnight hours on the library roof talking about life, instead of actually going inside and trying to plan it.

I then pictured myself with the diploma, in a year's time, failing miserably to kiss these things goodbye with even a tinge of grace. The anticipation of the void didn't help with ways to fill it. My hands were still shaky, my heart still nervous, and my mind poked through with, Are you sure you're ready?


I don't think anything will properly prepare me for what my friends must go through in two weeks time. So as I picture these things, I quickly hit the delete button. I change the focus to taking millions of snapshots everyday, so that when that times come and suddenly I am looking back, I won't have missed a thing.