My Mom’s Collection of Pill Bottles is bigger than your Mom’s
TV Mom — Annie ‘One Day at a Time’
My Mom — Similar, but not as easy going
Movie Mom — Joan Crawford ‘Mommy Dearest’
My Mom — Some similarities
TV Mom — June Cleaver ‘Leave it to Beaver’
My Mom — Not even close.
Movie/Book Mom — Deidre Burros ‘Running with Scissors’
My Mom — Nailed it.
Nikki was bigger than life. My sober friends called her ‘Shiny Nikki’ due to Mom’s affinity for oversized cubic zirconia. Each hand sports gigantic rocks entwined around her surprisingly slim fingers. Nikki adorns her neck with layers of gold and faux ice. The earrings, oh the earrings! Nikki never met an oversized piece of glitter she didn’t like.
She easily adopts the Lone Star state motto, “Everything is bigger in Texas”. Nikki’s size was bigger than most, her personality was bigger than the Rio Grande and her deep love of prescription drugs surpassed all 171,051 acres of Texas land.
Strangers would remark on Nikki’s outgoing personality, “You must be happy all the time”, or “You’re a lucky girl to have such a happy mom.”
I was privy to the persona behind this fictitious exuberant personality. I was the shoulder mom cried on while bemoaning her oversize frame.
“Is she bigger than me?” Nikki asks as we navigate her rusted Buick Lesabre through Albertson’s parking lot.
This ‘go-to’ game unnecessarily burdens my childhood, at least I always know the answer is, ‘yes, she’s bigger than you”.
I allow Nikki to go ahead of me in stores. She struts in door frames with her head held high. I hold our shame. The shame I experience being with her and the shame I wish she would exhibit.
I want to love my mother no matter her size or volume. The message from the scriptures to The Waltons is, “love your parents.” Why can’t I love the boisterous, sad, and extra-large mom God gave me?
I wander off to the condiments aisle. I have a magical power ensuring I break every mayonnaise jar I pick up. It becomes my birthright.
I attempt to halt this illogical spell by picking up a ketchup bottle, mustard jar, and steak sauce, no problem. I’m a whiz.
“Misty!, Misty!…” I hear Nikki shout my name several aisles over.
I ignore her urgent pleas choosing to focus on the task at hand.
“I think your mom is calling you”, a stranger interjects.
What am I? The only kid in Albertson’s?
“Not my mom”, I state as I step closer to Hellman’s.
“Misty! Misty!…”, her voice carries throughout the store.
I chuckle loud enough for others to hear me, “Who names their kid Misty?”
I roll my eyes turning back to my nemesis, Mayonnaise. I have about 60 seconds before Nikki appears in her purple butterfly mumu.
“Don’t touch the Mayo!” Nikki stands five feet away.
“Why are you not answering me?”, she asks.
Ignoring her question I sheepishly follow her to the chip section.
Nikki inspects each bag of Doritos as if the Hope Diamond is buried beneath its cheesy crumbs.
“Does this one have more cheese or this one?”, Nikki holds two bags in front of me.
I look through the plastic chip window and tell her the left bag holds the most cheese.
“That’s what I thought”, Nikki says.
I make this shit up as I go along. Nikki thinks I’m a Buddha incarnate.
She asks me questions no adult should ask their child.
“Do you think Dale likes me, or just using me for sex?”, Nikki inquires on Saturday night.
“He’s using you.”, I reply dryly.
“That’s what I thought.”, she mutters.
I’ve learned to pick the worst-case scenario. When I validate her fears she sees me as having insight and knowledge beyond my capabilities.
But what do I know, I’m nine.
Nikki agrees to the Doritos bag I suggested and we head to the checkout.
“We need mayo.”, Nikki remembers.
“I can do it”, I offer.
“Are you sure?”, Nikki asks but the back of my head is her only reply.
I run back to the condiments aisle and pause before casually securing a large jar of ‘Real Mayonnaise’ under my arm.
“I can do this. It’s no big deal”, I tell myself rounding towards the check-out lane.
Nikki watches me with a double dose of caution in her eyes.
I’m playing it cool and it seems to be working. I hoist the glass of whipped oil and eggs on the conveyor belt. BOOM! KASPLAT! All over my faux keds.
Nikki laughs in the clerk’s direction instructing a bag boy to grab the replacement.
I’m batting 1000 in this department.
