I don't get to see my mother much. I thought about it every time I saw the photo of her. When I was sixteen she remarried a Canadian and hopped the border to live with him. Cheaper healthcare and all that, I suppose. The good thing is I like the guy. Frank was his name. An average kind of name for an average kind of guy. He had worked at a pulp mill, had for most of his life. After divorcing his previous wife, found my mom on an online dating site.
My mom had been through a long line of disappointing and borderline abusive boyfriends and husbands since she first divorce my dad when I was a kid. So it was nice when she finally met Frank.
My sisters and I grew up spending half our days with mom, and half with dad. But of course, that sort of schedule was hard to keep up when she lives in a different country. Granted, it's Canada, but it's still a different country - four hour drive if the roads were good, which they weren't on the Canadian side during the winter, and my mom drove a tiny little Kia. I didn't like the idea of her on the roads alone any more than her new husband did. So visits were few, and limited.
When I graduated high school, I tried a few things, including college, but nothing seemed to really work. I probably kept in touch with her about half as much as I should have, but on the rare occasions when we'd finally meet up again, I always loved every moment. My mom had always been my rock, the one woman in my life I knew loved me unconditionally.
She had a rough relationship with my oldest sister, and sometimes my other sister as well. But I always tried my best as the youngest to be as little trouble as possible. And when I say she had a rough relationship with my sister, I mean the two of them didn't speak to each other for two years at one point. So I saw the heartache it put through my mother. I wanted nothing more than to make her happy.
Now, thankfully, after a long weekend and several bottles of wine - or so I'm told - my sister and her managed to patch things up. Truths were told, tears were shed, but in the end, they came out happy.
Now, 22 and living in my own house - well, with roommates - working 40 hours a week, I find myself thinking of my mom more often.
I should text her, I thought to myself, Ask about Thanksgiving.
My roommates and I were going to have a big dinner for our first thanksgiving in the new house. They were inviting their parents, so I wanted had been meaning to invite my mom as well.
Unplugging my phone from the charger on my nighstand, I pulled up the last threat between me and my mom.
Morning mom!
I set the phone down; she usually didn't respond immediately. I laid my head back down on my pillow and enjoyed the feeling of the early morning sunlight on my bare back. Barely keeping my eyes open, I saw myself in the mirror across the room. My long brown hair was wild with bed head, and my modest beard was misshapen and poofy in spots. Most people don't tell you a beard really does require upkeep.
Minutes passed and I heard my phone vibrate.
I tapped it awake to read mom's reply; Morning, handsome!
I told her about the Thanksgiving dinner we were having, and told her Frank was welcome to join us as well.
In the time it took me to brush my teeth in the bathroom across the hall, I was able to get a response from her.
I would love that! I have to get my bubby fix! ;) Frank won't be able to come, though. He's got work all through to that weekend.
I smiled at the nickname. She had called me bubby since before I could remember. She was kind enough to refrain from pet names whilst among my friends, but whenever we were in the house, it was bubby. To be honest, I kinda liked it. Before, whenever she had been feeling down about my sister and her, I would tell her, "You've always got your bubby" and it would always cheer her up.
That's too bad. But we'd love to have you! Me especially of course :)
Her reply came within a minute.
Well count me in! Thanks, honey.
I replied quickly, Of course, momma :)
I wasn't expecting her to reply, but five minutes later my phone vibrated with life once more.
Your sister told me about all those times you stood up for me and defended me when you two would fight about me. I felt my stomach clench at the thought of it. I don't know why, I guess it made me wonder what else my sister had told her about our fights. A lot of nasty things were said...
Another text finished her thought, I just wanted to let you know how much I appreciate that, son. You're a blessing and a wonderful young man.
I was touched. Call me a momma's boy, but I don't care, nobody can make me blush like my mom.
Thanks mom. I'm sure I got it all from you. Not to mention these damn good looks. I chuckled at my own jest.
Mom's response was quick; Hahaha! Did you just say I had damn good looks?
Of course I did. You're gorgeous, mama! ;)
I wasn't sure why I added the winky face. Stupid as it may seem, a winky face means something - or so my roommate and I had agreed after a long debate over many beers.
Well thank you, son ;) I'll see you in a few weeks.
I left the conversation there, and let myself rest easy again. I had the day off, and fully intended to sleep in as long as possible.
The weeks came and went in a blur of monotonous work and binge Netflix-ing. A pitiful existence, I know, but when you're working 40 hours a week and everyone you know and hang out with is either engaged, married, or has a kid with someone, you don't get out much.
So, yes, it has been a while since I've gotten laid. A few months ago I had a thing with an old ex. She randomly texted me the morning after her birthday and told me to "Maybe come fuck me real quick."
To which my response was, "I can do that".
Few hours and two condoms later, I was driving back to my house, fully aware I would likely not hear from her until her next birthday. It was something of an unspoken tradition that I had established with her over the last two years. Well, now three. The first year we were dating, the second year she was trying to get back with me. This time I think she was just lonely.
Anyway, back to my point. Thanksgiving was here and my house was bustling. Four bedrooms, two baths, a large living room and a pocket-sized kitchen made for an interesting situation with all of our parents here. My best friend and roommate Rick had his mom and dad here, his fiance (and my third roommate) Kacie had her mom and dad, which meant the game room and the spare room were taken. My mom had ditched her overnight bag on my bed.
My mom and Kacie's mom worked in tandem in the kitchen, having met long ago and always gotten along great. Rick's mom was at the table mixing drinks for everyone. She was the wild and crazy one that liked to drink at any opportunity. I kept my pride of my own mother to myself; not only was she the most friendly, but by far the most attractive. At 5,4', 120 pounds, my mom would tell you she's "fun-sized." Her long, dark auburn hair had been passed down to my sisters, whereas I had inherited my father's chestnut brown hair. One thing I could never help but notice and my friends would give me shit about it too; my mom had an ass that wouldn't quit. Not just big, but shaped perfectly, always in tight jeans or yoga pants; my mom definitely had a mothers hips but she had a brazillian swimsuit model's ass.
Today was no different. She wore a pair of tall, tanned boots over long black leggings, and a longsleeve white cotton top, a deep V in the neck exposing some of her cleavage when she bent low for the stove.
What am I doing? I thought to myself, looking back to the program that Rick had put on the living room TV. Checking out my mom?
Despite my conscience, I snuck a look back to the kitchen, and saw my mom bent at the waist over the counter, a pair of oven mitts up to where her sleeves were bunched, her long ponytail draped over her shoulder. I couldn't unglue my eyes from her ass in those black leggings. Against the white wall background, I could see every curve of every muscle in her firm legs. As far as I knew my mom only ran on the treadmill for excersize, but whatever she did, it was working amazingly.
When we all sat down for dinner and said grace, I had to set down my fork and knife and look across the table to my mom with an accusatory look.
"What?" she asked with a smile, her silver earrings glittering in the dining room light.
"I'm a little hurt that you haven't yet commented on the beard." I said, pretending to be hurt. I don't know why I even brought it up. I guess I just wanted to hear her say it looked good. After all, I had kept a clean shaven face all my life up until two months ago. Mom hadn't seen me in over four.
"I like it," she said with an honest grin. I watched her eyes scan over the lower half of my face. "No, it really looks good. You look like a man, I must say."
"I agree," Rick's mom chimed in from the other end of the table, flaunting her bleached blonde hair over her shoulder with a flutter in her eyes. "I hardly recognized you when I got here, sweetheart."
It wouldn't be unlike her to hit on me. Rick was constantly apologizing for it whenever she left. He loved his mom, but she was a drunk, and a flirt, even at her age. I tolerated it though. It was flattering, if I had to say so. It was nice to know older women found me attractive.
I still found my mom's approving glimmer in her eye far more satisfying.
Later that night we all piled up on the couches and watched the new superman movie. My mom admitted that she had never seen it and nearly all of us lost our minds.
So there we were, eight people on two couches, one L couch and one three seater. My mom and I were sat at the head of the L on the first couch. I sat in the corner with my mom to my right. We shared a bowl of popcorn which I held in my lap. I got lost in the movie quite quickly, and it seemed my mom did too.
