Like Mother, Like Daughter...

My relationship with my mama is pretty special.  From the time I was a small child I just wanted to be around her.  Like... all the time.  I have heard numerous tales of me, as a little creature on the farm, clinging to her leg 24/7.  One would think that growing up on a farm would mean possessing a natural affinity and love for the sound of loud engines.  I was not born with this trait, and the sound of a tractor, snowmobile, motorcycle or any other motorized vehicle revving up would send me running, screaming hysterically, clinging to my mama's leg as though I had been chased by a psychopath wielding a chainsaw.

When I transitioned into the teen years, I remember many heart to heart talks with mama.  Don't get me wrong, these were not girl talk sessions featuring a mutual bearing of our souls.  This was me, either asking really uncomfortable questions, or spilling every juicy detail of my young, inexperienced life.  I never shied away from 'sensitive' topics, much to her dismay I would imagine, as she has always been much classier than me in regards to subjects of conversation - remember, she never swears.  I recall around the age of 15 or 16 spilling some especially scandalous tea, and her saying:  "My mom friends always complain that their kids don't tell them anything, sometimes you tell me too much..."  This, of course didn't stop me, and through my life, when something particularly personal, even better - embarrassing - happened to me, she has always been the first person I wanted to call.  Nothing makes my mama laugh harder than a story about falling down in public, a poorly timed bodily function release or anything of the like.  

Sadly, we now live two hours apart from one another.  When I was working, my daily routine included calling her on my drive home so we could chat about our day.  Good, bad or ugly, we shared it all.  Since the pandemic started we are not in touch daily, but she is still the first person I call if anything embarrassing arises.  Sometimes we text back and forth, and our text conversation from a few days ago might be one of my favourites... so much so, I thought it should live on forever in my blog.  I think future generations will really appreciate it.  For a bit of context, the topic of vaginas came up (as it does) and I had referred to it as a 'foofer' (as you do):

mama:  I didn't know how to spell foofer before, I thought for sure it would have a capital "f".

me:  You can spell it however you like as it isn't a real word.  Yours must be special to get a capital "F".

mama:  Mine does not have a name.

me:  Mine has at least two names:  foofer, clinka... there might be more, I will have to think about it.

mama:  Well, if mine ever did have a name I can't remember it.

me:  You should ask dad.

mama:  OMG can you imagine?  I will tell him you want to know.

me:  He might have you institutionalized, or write me out of the will.

mama:  Probably both.

My dear mama, thank you for always being my bestie, for listening to years of oversharing,  for sending me six hearts whenever I need them, and for pushing me out of your foofer.

jbxo