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.