Mom

Mom looks a lot like Sally Field. I think Mom’s gorgeous. Every time I see Sally Field on television, I miss Mom, and so I call her and talk to her for a while. I admit I’m a terrible momma’s girl, and I don’t care. It’s been a really long time since I got to see her, so she is coming to stay with me for a few days over her next break.

One of the best things about Mom is that she has always accepted me in all my disarray. She never expects me to have cleaned for her (although always, at the last minute, I run around in a tizzy trying to do so), she doesn’t expect me to curb my language (which is not terrible, really, it’s just that I do drop an occasional f-bomb), she seems really to be proud, in a weird way, of the fact that my life is so ridiculous and un-grownup-like. It’s not that she doesn’t have expectations of me, or that I’ve never disappointed her; it’s more that I’ve never hidden my faults and flaws from her, and she’s never held them against me. She does what the best of Moms do — she makes me feel loved, and important. I can’t wait to see her again.

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