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Authors: Laina Turner
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my mother yelled again. She wasn’t the most patient person in the world. She also didn’t believe anyone needed to sleep past five a.m. When I was in high school and stayed out late at the occasional party, ( ok every Friday and Saturday night), this aspect of my mother’ s personality really sucked. My friends always hated staying over because she always made them get up early too . The pleasure she derived from it was ridiculous.
“I’m coming! Give me a minute,” Hold your damn horses, woman , I muttered under my breath, because it sure wouldn’t do any good for my mother to hear me. I lay in bed one more second an d, groaning inwardly, pushed myself up and swung my legs over the bed. I shuffled to the bathroom, t rying to rub the sleep out of my eyes. My room was s till the same as it was when I had lived at home; lime gre en walls with hot pink trim. I had chosen the colors in middle school , and while I still liked that combination, a room full of it was a bit much. Stuffed animals lined the shelves, along with my pom-poms and other memorabilia . It made me laugh when I thought of how important I used to think all of this stuff was. Even now, it would be sad in a strange way if I ever came home to an empty room. One time, when I asked my mothe r why she never redecorated my room into something more practical, she said she was waiting for grandchildren so she could turn it into a nu rsery. It wasn’t a topic I ever brought up again. I didn’t need that headache , and even though I loved kids, at this point in my life , it wasn’t som ething I wanted to think about.
I needed to wake myself up, so I stepped up to the antiqu e pedestal sink (a true antique my mother found at a flea market, not a faux antique from Home Depot) an d splashed ice-cold water on my face. It helped a little and I knew the coffee waiting for me downstairs w ould finish the job.
I often wished I could mainline coffee, stick the ne edle in a few minutes before I woke up so I was infu sed with what it took to get my day started. I thought about getting dressed for all of two seconds, but decided I really needed that coffee sooner rather than later. If my mother didn’t like my blue Scooby Doo pajamas, well too bad, she would just hav e to live with it. They were my favorite pair because they were so comfortable, and that was all that mattered to me . Why people felt compelled to wear nightgowns or even lingerie was beyond her. I preferred warm and cozy any day , t hough it might be one reason I was still single.
I padded down the stairs into the kitchen where both my parents were seated . This had always been the gathering sp ot growing up and was one of my favorite parts of the house. The other parts of the house seemed rarely used compared to the kitchen, when I thought about it. My mother was constantly in the kitchen cooking something, or brewing an endless supply of iced tea. The smells were always wonderful coming from here. The kitchen was a warm and homey place where , as a kid , I would tell them about my day after school, leaving out any bad things I did, while eating fresh-baked, homemade cookies. The kitchen was still decor ated the same as it was when I was growing up, but I liked it. It felt comfortable : p ale yellow walls with light blue trim, accented with a brick red tile design as a splashguard behind the sink and around the counter. The whole house had beautiful oak wood floors; real wood that stood the test of time, not laminate crap, and the kitchen was no exception. In this room , my mother had a beautiful handmade rag rug under the table , t he kind where you wanted to take your shoes off and dig your toes in.
My dad sat at the table, talking to my mom and nursing his coffee. Together since they were fifteen, they were still best friends and never seemed to run out of things to talk about. My mother was already dressed for the day in her Junior League uniform — ivory dress slacks and a rose-colored silk blouse
“I’m coming! Give me a minute,” Hold your damn horses, woman , I muttered under my breath, because it sure wouldn’t do any good for my mother to hear me. I lay in bed one more second an d, groaning inwardly, pushed myself up and swung my legs over the bed. I shuffled to the bathroom, t rying to rub the sleep out of my eyes. My room was s till the same as it was when I had lived at home; lime gre en walls with hot pink trim. I had chosen the colors in middle school , and while I still liked that combination, a room full of it was a bit much. Stuffed animals lined the shelves, along with my pom-poms and other memorabilia . It made me laugh when I thought of how important I used to think all of this stuff was. Even now, it would be sad in a strange way if I ever came home to an empty room. One time, when I asked my mothe r why she never redecorated my room into something more practical, she said she was waiting for grandchildren so she could turn it into a nu rsery. It wasn’t a topic I ever brought up again. I didn’t need that headache , and even though I loved kids, at this point in my life , it wasn’t som ething I wanted to think about.
I needed to wake myself up, so I stepped up to the antiqu e pedestal sink (a true antique my mother found at a flea market, not a faux antique from Home Depot) an d splashed ice-cold water on my face. It helped a little and I knew the coffee waiting for me downstairs w ould finish the job.
I often wished I could mainline coffee, stick the ne edle in a few minutes before I woke up so I was infu sed with what it took to get my day started. I thought about getting dressed for all of two seconds, but decided I really needed that coffee sooner rather than later. If my mother didn’t like my blue Scooby Doo pajamas, well too bad, she would just hav e to live with it. They were my favorite pair because they were so comfortable, and that was all that mattered to me . Why people felt compelled to wear nightgowns or even lingerie was beyond her. I preferred warm and cozy any day , t hough it might be one reason I was still single.
I padded down the stairs into the kitchen where both my parents were seated . This had always been the gathering sp ot growing up and was one of my favorite parts of the house. The other parts of the house seemed rarely used compared to the kitchen, when I thought about it. My mother was constantly in the kitchen cooking something, or brewing an endless supply of iced tea. The smells were always wonderful coming from here. The kitchen was a warm and homey place where , as a kid , I would tell them about my day after school, leaving out any bad things I did, while eating fresh-baked, homemade cookies. The kitchen was still decor ated the same as it was when I was growing up, but I liked it. It felt comfortable : p ale yellow walls with light blue trim, accented with a brick red tile design as a splashguard behind the sink and around the counter. The whole house had beautiful oak wood floors; real wood that stood the test of time, not laminate crap, and the kitchen was no exception. In this room , my mother had a beautiful handmade rag rug under the table , t he kind where you wanted to take your shoes off and dig your toes in.
My dad sat at the table, talking to my mom and nursing his coffee. Together since they were fifteen, they were still best friends and never seemed to run out of things to talk about. My mother was already dressed for the day in her Junior League uniform — ivory dress slacks and a rose-colored silk blouse
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