I
heated up a cup of coffee today in the microwave. I wasn't sure if
I should laugh or cry as I stood there holding the steaming cup for the second time
this morning. My son woke up crying, and it took me nearly an hour of singing,
consoling and rocking to
get him back to sleep. In the meantime, my coffee got cold. So, I heated
it up in the microwave.
Where did she heat up the coffee?
The TV.
The stove.
The CD player.
The microwave oven.
Who was crying?
A man.
Her son.
A woman.
A neighbor's kid.
I
grew up vowing never to be like my mother. She is a wonderful, strong
woman, and anyone would be proud to be like her. But I wasn't going to
be like her. No one in town seemed to know her name. To the teachers and
students at the various schools her children attended, she was simply
known as Tom's mom. At the grocery stores and around the auto parts
stores and hardware places, they affectionately called her "Mrs. Dale" after
my father's first name; and the folks at the bank, utility companies and other
such important places addressed her with my Dad's last name, as Mrs.
Keffer. Mom answered to all of them with a smile and kind words.
Why didn't the speaker
want to be like her mom?
Because she was ugly.
Because she had a bad temper.
Because no one knew her name.
Because she was married.
How was the mom called at the bank?
Tom's mom.
By her own name.
By her nickname.
By her husband's name.
I,
on the other hand, was never as gracious about it. Often, I would tell the bagger
at the grocery store, "Her name is Joyce, by the way," as he
handed her the bag and told her to have a nice day using one of the aforementioned
names. Mom would always smile and say, "You have a good day, too," as
she shot me
the ¨mind-your-manners¨ look. When we would
then get to the car, I would bicker at her for not standing up for
herself. "You
are your own person," I would retort. "You're not just an extension
of Dad." "I could be called a lot worse," she would always reply. "Besides, everyone knows your dad."
