Andrew Albert Reflects on His Mother's Superhuman Instinct
My Mom has a freakish, almost superhuman sense of smell. It's a trait that she's inexplicably proud of, as she mentions it every time she enters my room. Her nose will be in the air like a basset hound, and after a few seconds of sniffing, she'll announce, "There's an apple core in the third drawer of your dresser." And then she'll close the door, leaving me to question not only my sanity, but reality itself.
I marvel at how unfailingly polite my Mom is when we have company over. She's inviting, warm, friendly. Tea is offered, pleasant conversation is made, and her pearly white teeth gleam as she laughs at every joke.
When left with the company of my brother and I, she's in full Mom mode:
I asked you to fold that laundry an hour ago.
Who left the bathroom door open?
Why do I smell cigarette butts on the second floor window ledge beside the linen closet?
Don't chew with your mouth open. Hold that fork properly! This isn't a prison cafeteria.
My brother and I might as well have been adopted from monkeys, we're so different from her. My mother has never taken a meal beyond the confines of the first floor. Even the sound of cutlery in a bedroom makes her nervous. Her tasteful collection of Jazz and U2 records often drowned out by my brother's techno pop; and in the fridge, her homemade raspberry vinaigrette is likely shoved aside in favour of my half-eaten containers of yogurt.
It's a wonder that my mother hasn't pulled out her hair and checked herself into a psych ward, because she honestly puts up with a lot. My brother, in all of his teenage delinquency, is a handful. I like to think that I'm lower maintenance, but I'd just be lying to myself. I always pay my phone bill late, my laundry is forever discarded on the floor, and she'll be damned if she ever understands my sense of humour. The fact that she's able to love my brother and I despite our immense, glaring faults, is truly a marvel. But don't let that 5'5 frame fool you, either. My mom can, and will, cut a bitch.
When I was 12 years old, I witnessed an epic shopping cart shoving match in a Loblaws parking lot between my tiny mother and a rude taxi driver. My Mom shouted, Have some common courtesy! The driver responded, I do not have any of that. My Mom, flustered and fed up, concluded the fight by screaming, WELL FIND SOME! in a voice loud enough to be heard on the moon. Then she stormed off. Rude taxi drivers 0, my mom 1.
This is why my mother is Wonder Woman. No, she isn't made out of clay, and her work uniform is not a golden bustier with star spangled panties, but she is strong and Amazonian all the same. Underneath her sweet smile is a protective fierceness. I'm more than certain that, if my brother or I were pinned beneath a truck, my mother would swoop down and save us with ease. She might follow this with a half-hour lecture on road safety, with charts and graphs, but she wouldn't hesitate to put the lives of those she loves before her own.
I have never in my life known anyone as strong, loyal, loving and crazy all at once. She has such a bizarre sneeze. And the weirdest crush on Bono that I couldn't even begin to explain. But I couldn't love her more for it.
By Andrew Albert
You are Wonder Woman, mom. I love you, and have a fantastic Mother's Day. Hope you like your present!
