I Don’t Know Why I Remember…

I don’t know why I remember running errands with my mom as a teen. It was the same every time – talk about boys and girl drama in the car, where we wanted to have lunch and why my mom was irritated with my dad lately. I remember the mountains to my right, glorious and dominating in the Colorado sun as we headed south on the highway. I remember each of the four exits we might take depending on which stores and restaurant we decided to go to. We liked to call it “running errands” when, in reality, we mostly went shopping and enjoyed a nice meal together. We deserved it, right?

At lunch, mom and I would sometimes get an appetizer to share, then split a meal. I always ordered a Coke, my sugary addiction, while mom usually ordered a glass or two of wine – but never three. The conversation was typically lighthearted until I would start expressing my thoughts and feelings about life, humanity, God and the world. Mom liked getting a glimpse into my overly complicated mind – and sometimes she didn’t. She always told me when she did not agree with me, yet she remained respectful and loving all the while telling me why I was wrong. When I don’t agree with someone, I immediately get passionate and angry.

But we almost always got along well – like best friends, really – on our “errand” days. And we almost always came home with shopping bags full of clothes, too. Because of this, we had to make a plan on how we were going to get inside the house and sneak our shopping bags inside and upstairs without dad noticing. My mom was deemed the distraction while I hauled ass upstairs to hide the bags in my room.

I remember hearing my mom’s voice, “Hi sweetie, what have you been up to today?”, fade into the kitchen while I bolted upstairs. Surely, dad could hear the crinkling bags as they swung and hit my legs while I ran, but he never said anything.

Then, I would come back downstairs as if nothing had happened. I remember the wicked grin mom had on her face every time.