Don’t Mess With Mama

Just a few housekeeping details…make sure you read my post from yesterday (click HERE). An FYI regarding that post…yes…I did attend a weekend service as part of my Sabbath. Also, make sure that you enter to win a FREE piece of jewelry in a fun, creative contest! Click HERE.  AND, my writing gal pal is hosting a give-away on her blog of a fabulous necklace made by yours truly. Click HERE for that contest. That is all. Now for the regular Wednesday blog post.

 

Last night, my husband packed us in the van and took us to a local river beach. I’d had a bit of a frustrating day. He knew that if I didn’t get out of this house, I would implode. And that, my dear friends, is not pretty.

When we arrived, I saw two heads bobbing in the water. Now, before you get nervous, those heads were, in fact, attached to bodies. A fact that I became quite aware of as soon as I opened the van door.

Loud, shrill, annoying. The laughter of female, adolescent gossip carried across the water.

“Great,” I thought.

Then, they caught a glimpse at my husband.

Now, if you have seen my husband, you know that he is extraordinarily handsome.

Another thing that you must know about him; he is oblivious. Oh, yes. Mercy does exist in this world.

Well, the girls with the bobbing heads got one look at him and hooted. Hollered. Whooped.

I was…ahem…annoyed.

Then, not five minutes after we arrived, these girls dropped the F*Bomb.

Yes. THAT F*Bomb.

And not just once. Or twice. No. These girls dropped it thrice.

Yea. Thrice. And the ire that burneth…

Wait…when did Shakespeare take over?

Anyway, I was pretty upset.

Granted, my kids have no idea what the F*Bomb means. And I doubt that they’ve ever heard it before. But, I most certainly did not want them learning it and repeating it at church. Or to my mother. Or when ordering at a restaurant.

So, I looked at the bobbing heads of the girls and said, “Excuse me. There are young children here.”

And in that moment I became a different kind of mother.

Standing on that beach with my mom-swim-suit peeking out of my cut off jean shorts, I became that kind of mother.

I felt just a little bit tougher. A little bolder. Sassier.

Empowered.

In my novel, “Paint Chips” (releasing January, 2013), I wrote a scene wherein a mother stands up for her daughter. This mother speaks with authority and confidence, even though everyone is against her. I have to admit, I envied that courage in the woman I wrote (I know…I know…she’s not real…well, she kind of is…but…).

Last night, I realized that I was able to write that part because that courage really is within me.

This time, I stood up to the bobbing heads.

Who knows what it will be next time.

But I do know this…

You don’t wanna mess with mama.