mustaches & mimi

21 Jul

Two things.
One, I think George is going to have a mustache-themed first birthday party. It flies in the face of all my superstitions to announce such a thing, but I’m kind of really into it. Plus, he looks great in a mustache.

Two, my mom. George loves her. He thinks she’s funny and may be the only person on the face of the Earth who does. My mother is not funny unless you mean “funny,” in which case she’s “hilarious.”
My relationship with my mother is fodder for another post. A long one that you don’t want to read, that I will never write. Probably. Let it suffice to say that I have my reservations when she promises to ride bikes with him by the bay and teach him to skip stones, for this twee sort of childhood is nothing like the one I experienced. The fact remains, however, that my son loves my mother and not, apparently, in the way that he loves everyone. I’m lucky to have a mostly-willing babysitter with what I can assume is a vested interest in my child’s happiness and wellbeing. And yet.

His love for her grates a little. Only sometimes, and not too badly. Nothing like it does when my friends find her quirky or amusing. Or worse, entirely normal and pleasant. I am already quashing the instinct to tell him he has no idea what she’s really like, because sabotaging their relationship is the last thing I want to do, and if I started talking character flaws with a seven month old, I think it’s safe to say I’d be the one who’s “off.”
The best thing to come out of watching them, though, is the reminder of my mum in the photos from my infancy and toddler years. My long-haired, folky mum that played the guitar and sewed her clothes and was really devastatingly gorgeous. The intervening years have all but washed that woman from my memory, but I’ve always looked at those pictures from my childhood and thought she’d make a good friend. There, she appears as she does in photos with George: a toothy, crows’ feet marked grin, self-unaware and guileless as someone who’s unabashedly in love.

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