Young Chicks to Mother Hens - Page 2
“You wait young lady…you just wait… with your pert bottom and high breasts and perfect figure. You just wait until everything starts to sag and head South; when laughing depends on whether you can hold onto your bladder tight enough, and a hot chocolate and a good book beats a romantic evening hands down; when your children ...”
Please, someone stop me. [Slap]. Thank you.
As much as I tell her, she can’t quite believe she will one day be me. (Yes … Ouch!)
Then again, as I once stupidly and arrogantly told my own mother in a fit of rage, “I’m not going to work all the hours God sends just to look after a man and children. And what’s with giving Duvets as gifts? I’ll never do that. I’ll always think of fabulous gifts to give my friends.”
It need not be said then, perhaps, that my first foray into adulthood was owning my first Flat (US translation: Apartment) and realising I couldn’t afford Duvets for myself never mind gifting the bloody things to anyone else.
I would say, therefore, moving out of my parents home and protection was my first nick in the bedpost of real life. Not that I could afford a bed either. You would have had to tie me up, tie me down and bitch slap me into consciousness if you told me at 16 years old my first bed would have to be secondhand. WHAT? Are you MAD???
Moment of truth time though. I realised I had made the final transition from Young Hot Chick to Mother Hen when I replied “Whatever" in response to one of the children recently. Not because I was smart and hip, but because I was too damned tired to argue.
When did that happen?