Bend It Like Mommy

So, I am a failure as a mother. Yep. There are no redeeming qualities in my attempt to adequately fulfill this very important role, and I don’t know if I should call social services at this point and just concede. Mek them come and tek the chil’ from me now.

This morning, as Sonny was getting ready to go to camp, I was at the end of my rope. He did absolutely nothing that he was supposed to do, and made me shout, snap, snarl, and repeat myself continually, as his procrastination was making me late for work. Albeit, I am late for work every morning but on my own volition, and it frustrated me to no end that this young upstart was interfering with my morning schedule.

Then, horrors of horrors, after tossing a particularly acerbic reprimand in his general direction, accompanied by a particularly heinous threat, he stalked off, and my keen sense of hearing picked up the following muttered words “Old peoples’ home…so miserable…”.

Now, I have no idea what the intermittent phrases were and the rage and smoke coming out of my ears hindered all other audible measures. My gasp of outrage must have given him some clue as to the clear and present danger, for the obnoxious little twit turned around swiftly, with a look of panicked astonishment on his face, and took off.

I now recollect the entire episode in slow motion. As I moved, he disappeared in a cloud of panic. The expensive high heeled shoe somehow appeared in my hand, as he bent the corner, and I released after taking angered aim at his head. I then stood back in smug expectation and waited…and waited…and watched in stunned awe as my shoe hit the wall, and fell lifelessly to the floor. Nothing. My jaw dropped, and from then on, my entire day was shot. I almost keeled over on the floor in tears, as a dry wail built up within my throat, begging for release. Sonny’s smug little snicker at having escaped did not help matters any.

See, as a chil’, I can remember many an episode when mi mudda would launch a projectile at me, my bruddas or sisters, her aim and rage to such an extent that the projectiles would bend corners. We were slippery little buggers, yet, my brothers still bears scars on the back of their heads, and let’s not mention the time that one stopped smugly around the corner to gloat, and the shoe subsequently followed to chop him in his forehead. As a bratty younger sister, I still recall that episode in gleeful satisfaction.

As a mother, I have perfected the required parenting phrases:

“…Because I said so!”
“Don’t let me come up there!”
“Shut up you mouth and eat your food!”

Many of the above have been bawled to my chagrin, as subsequently I realized that I was turning into mi mudda, sans the menopause and gray hairs. At least, not yet.

And now, this essential rite of passage for the Caribbean mother…the proverbial “Bend It Like Mummy” and I have failed miserably. I am such a loser! How can my Sonny recount the episodes to his own kin about the times that his Mudda shoe bent the corner to lace him good and proper?

I mean, my grandparents and parents alike have all passed down these sagas that are legendary to their respective tribes, and now, I have nothing. The one grandchild in my family, and I have essentially killed a critical family skill. My son will have no bend-corner-pop-head stories to relay. And don’t tell me that I should try again. I am scarred.

And on that pathetic note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.