Father's Day

My Mom was in town this weekend.

Sometimes I feel like I can revert to the emotional maturity of a door-slamming 17-year-old when my Mom is around.

I allow my buttons to be pushed.

Saturday night we're watching some television together. Okay, I'll admit it. We were tuning in to the "I Know My Kid's a Star" marathon.

We'd watched one episode and, midway through the second episode, I left the room to use the bathroom and fold some laundry.

When I came back, the tv was on another channel.

"You don't want to watch the show?" I asked.

"It's over," said my mother.

"Are you sure?" said I. It's a marathon. It's on until the end of time."

"No," my mother protested. "It's over."

I was not invested in the show. In fact, I would have preferred to watch Brideshead Revisited! But sometimes my need to be right usurps my need to let it go. So I found the channel again. Of course, it's still on.

But who cares, right?

Me. I care!

So I turned off the TV and, with all the love in my heart, I said, "Ma. What's going on. This is the dumbest thing in the world to lie about. Why didn't you just tell me that you didn't want to watch I Know My Kids a Star?"

"Because," said my mother after a ten minute conversation that pulled every Catholic guilt card in the deck,"with your father I had to make up a story to get my way."

And I wonder why I need to re-learn how to communicate.