What have I done? What little Italian Prince have I created and will his wife someday hate me for my sins? Perhaps.
I am a working mother. All in, I probably work close to 50 hours a week. Like many moms, that’s my day job. Then I do my mom job; my carpool job; my house-keeper job, the dog walking job and my wife job. Not complaining really, just stating a fact.
Today I had a meeting from 3pm to 5pm. I had my mother, otherwise known as “G” or Grammee, come and help out with the carpooling. Before I left, I staged dinner in two ready to heat dishes. I left instructions on 3 post-it-notes and ran to my meeting. I created one dish for Amelia to eat in between her after school activity and basketball; and the other for Chip and Jack to heat after basketball and work. (Life got in the way of Zumba…no Zumba tonight.)
My mother heated Amelia’s dinner and prepared the mashed potatoes. Not a problem. Until Jack examined his dinner, as he usually does. He knows if I cheat and use frozen veggies; he knows if I cheat and use store brand and he knows when I lie and tell him it’s chicken, when it is actually pork. Tonight he is sitting there eating what he thinks is chicken and potatoes and asks me, “did you hand mash these potatoes?”
“Why Jack?” I ask.
“Just want to know”, he says. I tell him Grammee did and he says, “oh, OK good”. Truth be told, Grammee did not mash them, Ore-Ida did. I also used the soft spread butter and told him Grammee did that too. This reasoning usually gets the stamp of approval. He loves my mother and she can do no wrong. That is exactly how it should be. Don’t all little Italian boys love their mamas and ‘Nonnas”?
I have told my son since he was a baby that no one will love him more than I do and he could have 11 wives but only one mother…. LOVE YOUR MOTHER. I have told him wicked ways and the sins of canned pasta sauce, frozen meatballs, packaged mozzarella cheese and heaven forbid….SpaghettiOs®. UGH. I told him to watch for these shortcuts as women will try to fool him, but alas, he has been taught by the master…me, and of course, my mother.
I know someday I will be visiting my son and his wife in his home and through the heat vents one floor up, I will hear his puttana wife tell him what a pain I am and that assisted living is really OK for your mother. Maybe I should start to atone now. I won’t survive without my kitchen and some good Italian bread and cheese. Oh, and Prosecco with a little limoncello.