moms gotta chillax

Last night, I watched the first episode of Speechless.  I chuckled uncomfortably at the Minnie Driver character, Mama Bear of a kid with CP.  My husband laughed considerably louder than I did.  I looked around nervously to see if there was a hidden camera in our apartment.

Some highlights from the ‘mom’ character:

She’s intense and a bit wacky
She lectures people on the correct language of disability, disabled parking spots and appropriate accessible accomodations
She’s burned through many schools and moved houses trying finding a good fit for her son
The teachers have a meeting about her before she shows up to the school, to figure out how to ‘handle’ her
Her husband is long-suffering
Her other kids are long-suffering too

This all felt eerily familiar.

I turned to Mike afterwards and asked:  what did you think?  He replied:  I think she even has the same hair as you.  Oh.  Got it.   I thought to myself:  I gotta learn to relax.  

This morning I was sitting on the couch, drinking my coffee.  Teenage Aaron stumbled out of his room and stood in front of the fridge in his underwear.

Moms gotta chillax, he said, talking into the fridge.
What did you say? I said, unable to understand his mumbling at the best of times.
He turned to me and said clearly and definitively:  Moms gotta chillax.  Massage, day spa, books, sushi, baths, he added, counting things moms can do to chillax on his fingers.

Got it dude.  Mama Bears, promise me this weekend you will pick one thing to do to chillax.  Personally, I’m going for a pedicure at the day spa.  My Yoda has spoken.

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