10 Cents a Glass

I honestly thought she had taken her straw, filled it with lemonade and shot it straight at my daughter across the table. We were at Izzy's last night, taking advantage of their salad bar. Rachel yelped and I saw the steady stream of liquid hit her face, her shirt and then up over her head to the table behind us. "What in the world" I thought...I looked over at my visiting Mom...minding her own business of chomping on a Pepperoncini (yes that is the correct spelling, even though it doesn't look right) She had bitten into it and it squirted all over the place. I first checked my daughter to make sure the pepper juice hadn't gone into her eye and when I saw that she was ok, I sat agast at how much juice was in that sucker. "Mom....MOM...you are squirting pepper juice everywhere!" I said cleaning the mess from the booth and wall.. "Huh?" she looks up. "The pepper Mom...it exploded." "Oh...ok." she says as she gets up to head off for seconds. Rachel gave me that knowing look, one we have developed with each other over the past few days that says..."It's almost over mama..."

My adopted mom and I have never had much of a mother/daughter relationship. It was more one of tolerance. Even when I was a child, I had a nanny. I thought of her as my mother rather than the ominous figure my adopted mother's shadow cast. I called my nanny, Grandma, Grandma Jo. She was sweet, loving and hugged me all the time. She made cookies and tea for us when we came home from school and read us books. She would sprinkle a tiny bit of salt on our apples and even peel them if we asked. She would let me wear my shiny red Mary Janes out to play. I cried the day my adopted mom sent her away, I was 8.

It was at that time, that I got to know who this person was I called Mom. And it really didn't get much better. In fact, it was worse. I was an inconvenience etc...and in the way. I have already gone on about some of the things that went on, in this blog, and there are some I just would rather never mention, the thoughts alone are enough. At any rate, I guess my point or where I am trying to go with this is that, I don't like my adopted mom. I love her...but I don't like her. I can be civil, courteous and respectful. I can chit chat, help her and listen. But I can't seem to find my way to be her "friend". I feel bad about that.