The Most Hilarious Stories (and Lies) My Mom Has Ever Told Me
She once got my grandmother sued.
In high school, my mother was so pissed that she got a B from her Home Economics teacher that she took her baking soda and vinegar “volcano” from her Science class, and purposely put it in her Home Economics teacher’s car with the intention of just being an annoyance, not knowing it would eventually get so hot in the car that it would explode. Suffice to say, it basically ruined the entire interior, so my grandmother ended up being threatened with a lawsuit (they settled out of court) and my mother was expelled.
Sinfulness makes Jesus cry.
Whenever I was unruly and it happened to be raining, my mother told me that the rain was actually God’s way of being sad because I’d sinned somewhere along the way. I’m sure she meant no harm by the notion and it was mostly just a way to get me to shut up, but I went on for years wondering what it was I’d done wrong to make God cry. That sort of burden will fuck you up.
She eloped with my father.
In Panama City, of all places. I’ve always wanted to just sporadically elope with someone for the hell of it. In retrospect, I’m sure she realizes as well as I do that being married and having a child at 19 wasn’t the best idea. However, at least she picked a sperm donor (my dad) that just happened to have a huge dick. Genetically, I see myself in both. My mother’s side has provided me with a proficient metabolism and symmetrical face, while my father’s side has pretty much been the catalyst for my carefree attitude, binge drinking, and carnality.
Boys don’t dance.
When I was younger, I used to go to church Wednesdays and Sundays with what I consider to be my second family, only on Wednesdays my friend and I would have to sit through his sister’s ballet classes. On the inside, I desperately wanted to be the dancers I kept seeing every week. Eventually, one of the instructors asked me if I wanted to be a male dancer for the company, because the singular male dancer they had at the time wasn’t sufficient. I literally wailed and begged and pleaded for my mother to let me join, but my tantrum wasn’t enough to convince her that boys do dance.
My mother has the unfortunate task of teaching prekindergarten children, meaning she not only has to deal with illiterate little people all day, but also has to sometimes cope with their lack of housetraining. The most pertinent example of that I can think of is one story she told me where this boy in her class was sitting so silenty that it raised suspicion. When she asked what was wrong, it was made clear he’d just shat his pants. I honestly feel for the kid, because it’s embarrassing to shit yourself anywhere, but this kid somehow managed to subtly take major dumps all over the classroom. Once the smell finally caught up to his squatting, anywhere he could find to privately defecate, my mother was tasked with finding (fortunately, she didn’t have to clean it herself; janitors are highly underrated members of society). The worst part of the ordeal was that the entire beanbag pavilion was soaked in shit and needed to be sanitized.