The Mom Complex

I don’t know if this is something that has always existed, if it’s something that all mom’s have or just my mom.

But she has this look.

It’s this one little side-eyed glare that makes me re-evaluate my entire life’s work and decisions.

And I only noticed it recently.

I am in the process of; surprise, surprise; moving into a new house. This time though, it’s not a move into a new house with my parents or into a campus-provided apartment or dorm. This is my first legitimate “home” on my own (with Brix and new to the roomie front, Ray). We decided that for our last year of university, it would be nice to have our own house where we could get away from it all and be mini-adults that pay rent and bills month to month, verse paying a lump sum in the beginning of the year.

But, I digress.

So, new house. The house is pretty big for the three of us. It’s two stories, plus a basement. We each have our own rooms, it has a full bathroom upstairs and a half bath on the second floor, plus a living room, dining room and newly remodeled kitchen.

The location of the house is amazing and we got the landlord to knock down our rent a bit under a few conditions; one of which included that we had to do our own minor repairs and painting inside.

Sure, easy. We’ll take the deal, Howie (Hope you didn’t miss that “Deal or No Deal” reference).

After a lot of blood, sweat and tears, plus a few days of spackling, sanding, painting and cleaning, the house is finally move-in ready and time to decorate.

Now we get back to my original point.

I took my mom with me to go furniture and home decor shopping, thinking that it would be a fun way to spend an afternoon and I would have a free laborer to push the cart.

Oh boy. Did I f*ck myself on that thought.

She didn’t like ANYTHING that I picked up.

And if she didn’t say something like; “why did you pick that color?” or “that’s not going to fit anywhere” or “a white bed spread is going to get filthy” or “how about you get this instead (while showing me something almost exactly the same as what’s in my hand”; she would also give this disapproving glance every now and again.

I would pick something up and she did the “mom look” as I’m calling it. She wouldn’t say a word. She would just look at what I was about to put in the cart, look at me, raise her eyebrows, look back at the thing and look away. Clearly unimpressed with my choice.

To make matters worse. She didn’t even want to push the cart.

So here’s my dumb*ss, toting around all the seemingly heinous items, having my style and decor choices ripped to shreds and biting my tongue so that I don’t say something rude back to mom,¬†because let’s be real, she brought me into this world, she can take me out and another reason that we brought mom along in the first place is because she offers to pay, even when you slap your credit card down at the till and make a fuss about how you’re a big kid now and can get things on your own.

So, mom, although you think that I have the design integrity of a six-year old aspiring to clown school, thanks for all the new stuff.

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