TOUCHÉ, MOTHER.
TOUCH-FREAKING-É.
This morning I was on my deck enjoying my daily Coffee with Heather, Kash & The Government Surveillance Crow™.
Yes.
The crow was back.
Sitting on the roof.
Staring directly at me.
Not blinking.
Just…judging every decision I’ve made since approximately 1994.
I have accepted that this bird either loves me, hates me, or is waiting for me to die so he can peck at my eyebrows.
Either way…
He needs a name.
Drop your suggestions.
ANYWHO.
Kash was acting like she’d snorted Pixy Stix.
Up in the chair.
Down off the chair.
Sniff my shirt.
Walk away.
Come back.
Sniff again.
Repeat.
Then I remembered…
I STILL smell like chocolate from yesterday’s cocoa powder catastrophe.
I didn’t make tiramisu yesterday.
I BECAME tiramisu.
My kitchen looks like Willy Wonka got raided by the DEA.
There is cocoa powder in places that defy both physics and the teachings of Jesus.
I found some IN MY BRA.
HOW?!
I have absolutely no explanation.
So I’m telling Kash, “You’re just as annoying as your boy kid…”
…and then karma came flying across the room like a steel folding chair thrown by Hulk Hogan.
JAXIN…
TREATS ME…
THE EXACT SAME WAY…
THAT I TREAT MY MOTHER.
I literally stopped mid-sip.
WHAT.
THE.
ACTUAL.
FUCK.
I DON’T DESERVE THIS.
My entire personality has been built around mildly inconveniencing my mother.
I call her just to say,
“Hey…is your refrigerator running?”
Then I immediately hang up.
No punchline.
No explanation.
Just emotional damage.
Sometimes I’ll call to ask what she’s doing…
She’ll say, “Nothing.”
And I’ll say,
“Good.”
CLICK.
THAT’S IT.
That’s the whole phone call.
I wasted thirty-seven seconds of her life just because it made ME laugh.
Now…
Let’s discuss Exhibit B.
My father.
My mother MET this man.
She DATED this man.
She voluntarily spent enough time with him to know exactly how his brain worked.
She looked this human embodiment of chaos directly in the eyeballs and said…
“Hmmmm…
I should reproduce with THAT.”
MA’AM.
EXCUSE ME?!
You saw the warning labels.
You ignored ALL OF THEM.
You had ME.
And somehow…
SOMEHOW…
you were surprised that I turned out to be an absolute menace to society?
THEN…
The universe doubled down.
It looked at my genetic disaster and said…
“You know what this family needs?”
“A FOURTH GENERATION SMART ASS.”
ENTER…
JAXIN.
This child wakes up every morning and chooses psychological warfare.
He doesn’t want money.
He doesn’t want snacks.
He wants REACTIONS.
He is a tiny emotional terrorist fueled by Capri Suns and sarcasm.
He says things JUST to watch my eye twitch.
He’ll stand in the doorway while I’m carrying groceries and suddenly remember he exists.
He’ll ask me seventeen questions…
…while I’m actively chewing.
He’ll say,
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Mom.”
“WHAT?”
“…Never mind.”
SIR.
I WILL FIGHT A CHILD.
Then…
THEN…
It hit me.
OH MY GOD.
THIS…
IS KARMA.
This isn’t parenting.
This is a court-ordered sentence.
I am serving life without parole for crimes committed against my mother over the last 40 years.
Mom…
I owe you an apology.
Not enough to stop harassing you…
Let’s not get CRAZY…
But enough to acknowledge…
You tried.
You really did.
Unfortunately…
You married my father.
This is on YOU.
Respectfully…
I would like a refund.
Or at the very least…
A manufacturer’s warranty.
Because this model appears to have inherited every defective smart-ass gene from the last four generations.
P.S. If Jaxin ever has children…
I’m going to be the MOST supportive grandma in recorded history.
I’m buying whistles.
A drum set.
A recorder.
Glitter.
Permanent markers.
And a puppy.
Because revenge…
…is a family tradition.
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