I Love My Mom, BUT We're at War...

I've had a pretty great day off so far. I woke up, way too early, to go to my last pilates session and then I tried to lay on the couch. I tried to come home and cuddle with my hubby who I thought would still be sleeping, but he tricked me! He was already up. So I made him get back in bed so I could cuddle up next to him for a little bit. Yup, spoiled. Then I tried really hard to fall asleep on the couch while he got ready for work, but every bone in my body said, "it's nice out, go enjoy the weather, call mom, call mom, call mom..." So I listened to that little voice in my head. Why?! I don't know. I called my mom after hubby left for work and asked her if she wanted to go for a walk. She was more than willing (even though I later found out, she really wanted a couch day too...) I knew if I didn't call her, I would have laid here until I got up off the couch for my core strength training tonight. I know what you're thinking, "What's wrong with you? All this exercising, are you crazy?!" Well the short answer is, yes I'm crazy. But the longer and more boring answer is that I have to do this. If I don't continue these workouts and stick to a real schedule, then I'll start to get really lazy, and I'll start that slow climb back up the scale, which is something I really don't want to do. Ever again.

So why am I at war with mom? No, it's not because she helps to push me to go for walks. In fact we both push each other because neither of us like going at it alone. I love my walks with my mom. It's how we bond. It's when we talk about the past and our futures. I love our walks and she better be doing it with me until she's eighty! That's right mom, eighty! So why am I at war with her? I'm at war at her because of roosters... That's right, roosters. Lots and lots of roosters.

Explain you say? Sure.

It all started years back when my mom moved out of the house we grew up in. In this house, we had an orange kitchen. A very orange kitchen. My brother and I clearly remember that this orange kitchen also contained roosters. She's in denial. She swears that this kitchen, although orange, never had roosters. We know better. Or at least what may not have been true then, is true now. I, being a loving daughter, tried to help her with her love for roosters, so I bought her a rooster for some holiday. Sadly, I can't remember which holiday or what year this mess all started. She screamed in terror when she opened said rooster present and denied up and down that she ever owned or liked roosters! "But mommy," I said, "I'm just trying to help you with your love for roosters and help you remember that lovely orange kitchen!" (this conversation went something like that) And then she, in all her rage, (ha ha) said, "you little brats, I don't like roosters!" Ouch! My present was unloved and treated like a red-headed stepchild. My poor rooster present was pushed to the side. This meant war! I decided then and there that I, being the loving daughter that I am of course, would help my mom to remember the roosters and remember the orange kitchen! I would make it my goal to buy her a rooster for every possible holiday until she told me that she remembered all those lovely memories in our orange kitchen... But then the wrench was thrown into my little machine: mom decided that she, in her infinite wisdom, would now buy ME roosters for my new home. Ohhhh, evil mother, evil, evil mother! Again, War was declared. But, by both sides!

Here is my collection of rooster paraphernalia from my loving mother...

So, even though I love my mother, she likes to slip little rooster presents into my home when I'm not looking. The problem is, my brothers sometime join in her little venture. It used to be my brother and I against mom, but now I've been hearing through the grapevine that he likes to look for roosters to stash in MY home. Oh, how dare you brother, how dare you!? You are no longer safe.

My last rooster present was snuck into one of my kitchen drawers. Sadly, for my mother, her little surprise was ruined because I needed something in the drawer before she left! She laughed and laughed. I thought our battles were over. Oh, touche mother, touche!

We've tried to make peace. I've tried to say that I will no longer buy roosters for her. Granted, the quality of my rooster presents far exceed her store finds, and yet she still hides them and refuses to let them enjoy the spotlight in her new non-orange kitchen. A beautiful rooster cookie jar, a mother hen plate, one of those spoons to put your smaller spoons on, and a lovely alarm clock that actually cockadoodledos when it's time to get up! How great are these presents?! Oh, she just doesn't see quality gifts now does she! I'll have to photograph her amazing collection... One day she'll realize that she just can't win. After the rooster alarm clock, how could I ever be topped! Game on Mother. Game on.