My Mother's Power to Mess with My Head
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I've been reminded lately that my late mother had truly sinister powers pertaining to MESSING WITH MY HEAD.
Here's a story about her: While I was briefly teaching Catholic school in 1997, Kindergarten through eighth grade, I apparently forgot to send in a car insurance payment. I was in my classroom with my Kindergarteners, teaching them to use the mouse on their computers. (I was the computer literacy teacher.) My mother came to the school, which was something of a drive from where my parents lived at the time, walked into my classroom.
I was thrilled. My mother would finally get to see me in action in my classroom, with my children. They were so happy and they all greeted my mother cheerily: "Hello Mrs. Furnish!"
She barely waved at them and proceeded to announce that I was terribly irresponsible, and why.
A year later, this came back at me during another difficult moment and I broke down in front of my sister (who was still human in those days but is becoming my mother), who forced a three-way conference, and my mother denied everything like she remembered nothing. This made it even _worse_.
All of that, plus many more incidents of black-irish-catholic-motherness, including many exasperating conversations on the phone about sundry perceived faux-pas, make me wish my mother hadn't been cremated sometimes, so I could dig her up and throttle her. Sometimes she still makes me mad as hell, all the way from the grave, and she's buried in New Jersey.