Interview With My Mom

I just came across this file on my computer. I think it’s from an idea I had two-ish years ago to interview my mom on my birthday. I never posted it, but here it is now, a few years late.

Tell me about the day of my birth.

It was August 5th, two weeks past my due date, and I was getting really annoyed.

Kay. Bad start.

Sorry, I drove myself to the hospital to be induced, and as I lumbered up the stairs to the lobby, my water broke and you started to emerge. The resident on call ignored my request to re-insert you so that I could be given an epidural. This left me no option except to push you out as quickly as possible, and you shot out like a projectile-

Stop. Ok, Skip ahead. What about my childhood?

There was the abusive Norwegian nanny.

Right, Guri.

Yup. There was the time you fried your hand on the electric burner of the stove during a wild party at which there was no adult sober enough to drive you to the hospital, you know, the usual kid stuff.

This explains so much.

Oh, and the time my mom caught you in the basement at the age of four, playing doctor with Shelley Peterson from nursery school. Your grandmother was shocked, but your dad and I attributed the incident to healthy curiosity.

I’m still pimping, by the way.

Your grammar school days proved to be the academic high point of your educational experience. After taking a second stab at kindergarten you hit your scholastic stride. In second grade, during show and tell, you told your class that your father was at the doctor’s, having a blasectomy. Your teacher was upset and we were called in for a conference.  When you got home that afternoon, we beat the crap out of you. Remember that?

Yup, I never mixed up my V’s and Bl’s again.

There was the homoerotic song you performed at the talent show with John Demartino.

“Why Can’t Me and Johnny do Butt Butt?”

Right.

Kay. Anything else?

Your middle school years can be reduced to the passage of time, marked by the occasional acquisition of WWF action figures. I think you got taller. You don’t like to talk about it.

Correct.