I recently moved out of the house. At 24 years old, you can say I slacked and mooched, and you’d be right. But the things is, My folks didn’t want me to leave. Especially my mom.
It all started young. My mom was the most over protective woman on earth. When Halloween rolled around in first grade, I didn’t get to go to the pumpkin patch. Why? Mom thought I might trip on all the pumpkin vines. Third grade, field trip to the Build-A-Bear factory in San Francisco. But it meant going across The Golden Gate Bridge. Scratch that out. Sixth grade canoe trip in the local estuary, we had life jackets and the water went to our knees. Mom let me go…I had to ride in the boat with my teacher. I could go on, but dear lord why?
Fast forward 20 something years later and there I was, in the same room I slept in since I was 2. But this time I was packing. 24 years of life conveniently placed in four cardboard boxes and safely secured with bubble wrap. It was a rough goodbye. I could hear her crying all the way to my new place, five minutes away. Walking.
As I unlocked the door to my new bachelor pad, full of accomplishment and dignity, I went to unpacking. Like any smart youngster braving this new world, I packed only the essentials; a few pairs of clothes, my chest I made in high school wood shop and my TV. As long as I didn’t plan on eating or showering I was set.
Well obviously after a few days of eating delivered pizza and using the innie outtie backwards forwards underwear technique I realized this was harder than it looked. Right about that moment I decided a chair might be a nice investment and add some sophistication to my new place. So needless to say I wanted to pick up a few things. As I was looking for my wallet I tripped over a flat can of root beer and landed on an overlooked box. Inside it was an oven mitt, some bleach and some kitchen items including a few pots. But what caught my eye the most was a zip lock bag. Inside the bag was a notebook and some pens.
The notebook was a little rough, Probably bought years back for school and forgotten. The pens were all inscribed with various insignias advertising doctors to contractors. But what hit home the most was that the pens had no tops. I cried for some reason. I cried at a notebook and some pens. What a riot, huh?
That was my mom. She packed in a small box all the things she knew I’d need. At that moment I decided I’d make her proud. I took that damn notebook and one of those goofy pens and made a list of things to get for my place. And I went out and got those things, using my little notebook as a guide.
One zip lock bag, contents:
1 notebook, used.
3 pens, no tops.
That’s my mom alright.