Mother Knows Best

            I spot my mom as soon as I pull my car into the Holiday Inn hotel parking lot downtown.  It’s freezing outside, and even with my seat warmers on and a puffer coat I’m freezing, while she’s wearing a stylish jacket and cropped pants.  She sees me and smiles brightly. 

            I reach over and open the door for her, a struggle when you have arms as short as mine and a car with automatic locks that are still broken.  Mom steps in and immediately hugs me.  Her perfume, a scent I can’t name but something that I know by heart, fills the car. 

            “Ryan, I missed you!”  Her voice is as warm as her perfume, and I can tell she’s happy to see me.  I give her a kiss on the cheek and she settles into the seat, closing the car door.  “You look beautiful, honey.  Your hair is so long!”  I instinctively touch my freshly blow-dried hair. 

            “Thanks,” I say, and begin driving.  “I thought you’d be hungry, so we can go straight—”

            She interrupts me.  “No, no, I’m really not very hungry right now.”  I know what’s coming immediately.  “I want to see your apartment!”  I change courses and begin the short drive to my house.  Already, worries are plaguing my mind.  I knew she’d want to see the apartment, and there are dishes in the sink.  And I hadn’t swept the floors.  Or folded all the laundry that’s just hanging over my clothes rack.  All of those things definitely wouldn’t go unnoticed by my mother. 

            On the way there, she chats about work.  Mom’s a full-time editor of a local architecture and interior design magazine and has been since I was born.  Before that, she wrote for local newspapers.  When I was born—I’m the oldest child in the family—she had just started at the magazine.  She only took half of the maternity leave offered her, and did the same with my younger sister and brother.  I’ve always admired her spunk and hard work, and hope that I inherited some of her best qualities. 

            We arrive at my apartment and I nervously unlock the door as Mom chatters happily.  “Oh, very nice, I forgot how pretty this brick is,” she says, admiring it. 

            “Mom, you saw this when I moved in,” I remind her.  She waves away my words with a quick flick of her wrist.  We walk inside and a wave of relief floods me.  Thank God for Emma—she’s cleaned off the counter and mopped the floor.  Sure, those dishes are still in the sink, but it wasn’t as many as I’d thought.  Our apartment looks pretty good, and I can tell Mom thinks so, too. 

            “Is Emma home?” she asks.  Mom has a soft spot for Emma, especially since we’ve both gone through so much together.  I shake my head no and say she’s working all night. 

            “She’ll find a better job soon,” Mom says with authority.  I don’t say that Emma actually enjoys her job managing the bar, because my mom has very set opinions about careers. 

            I change the subject.  “Want to see my room?” I ask.  “I even made my bed!” 

            My clean-freak mother actually smiles when she walks inside my room.  “Wow,” she says approvingly.  “No clothes crumpled on the floor!  You really are growing up,” she jokes.  Inhaling, she looks around and adds, “But I can smell those candles.  Lovely, but you need to make sure you’re always in the room when they burn.  Got it?”

            I roll my eyes.  “Don’t worry, ma’am,” I say.  “I’m safe as can be.”  Mom beams.

            “Good.  Now, dinner?” 

            Half an hour later we’re seated at Basil, a Thai place a few minutes from my house.  I’ve actually never been, because I have an embarrassing penchant for really inexpensive takeout and have never made my way here.  But my mom loves well-prepared food, and Basil has incredible reviews.  I go for a classic Pad Thai, and Mom orders pineapple curry, a delicious-sounding dish with chicken, spices, veggies, and of course, chunks of pineapple. 

            “I’m having a bite of that,” I warn her.  There’s a comfortable silence for a few minutes while we sip our drinks and look at the room.  I’m positive my mom is checking out the décor by the way she carefully eyes the tables and wall art.  “It’s a little heavy-handed,” she observes, “but still pretty.”  She finally tears her gaze away from the details of the restaurant and looks at me.  “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you,” she tells me. 

            I immediately feel guilty.  She’s right, and on top of that, we haven’t spoken since her email.  I rarely call her.  My mom and I are close, but not best-friend, feel-good-movie close.  She’s always busy and lives a hectic life, and I sometimes don’t feel comfortable confiding in her.  It’s not that she doesn’t listen, but she has such strong opinions about everything that it’s hard to not get defensive if she doesn’t agree.  That’s why I haven’t told her about Cam yet. 

            However, I know I’m not always fair with her. She’s my mother, and she deserves to know things about my life.  I decide to tell her about Cam. 

            “I decided to give Cam another shot,” I blurt out.  Mom looks surprised, but she just sips her jasmine tea and watches me.  I take the hint and keep talking.  “We’ve seen each other a few times and I think things are going well.  Really well.” 

            “I met him once, didn’t I?” she asks.  I nod.  It was a while ago, back when Cam and I were still in college.  I’m surprised she remembers. 

            “He has a job now, and seems like he’s ready to start getting serious.  Not that I need something serious right away,” I clarify—why am I always defending my decision to date him?—“but it is nice knowing I don’t have to worry whether he wants to be with me or not.”   Anxiously, I twist my hands around the cloth napkin.  If it had been paper, I’d have already ripped it to shreds.  I’m surprised at how much my mother’s opinion of him matters to me. 

           

            “Yes, well that’s very good,” she says.  “I’m sure he has a great job, and I’m sure he’s very nice.”  She pauses.  “But how do you feel about him?  About the relationship?” 

            Before I can answer, our food arrives, and we’re both distracted at how aromatic everything is.  Both dishes are plated beautifully, and I can’t decide which one smells better.  Even though our food is steaming, we both dig in enthusiastically.  One thing Mom and I have in common is our love of amazing food. 

            Mom murmurs in appreciation.  “You picked a great place, Ryan,” she tells me, placing a bit of pineapple and chicken on my plate.  I let her have some of my noodles. 

            “Everything is amazing,” I say happily.  It’s only after the feeding frenzy slows that I remember our conversation about Cam.  “What you asked earlier, about how I feel about the relationship, is something I’ve been thinking about a lot recently,” I say.  Despite the rapid change of subject, Mom knows immediately what I’m talking about.  “I’m scared because I don’t know if I can ever get over how much he hurt me.” 

            Mom’s nodding, looking down at her plate thoughtfully.  “This will sound cliché, but everyone will hurt you in some way or another, Ryan.  People are people.  We’re imperfect and we’ll make mistakes.” 

            “Even you?” I say softly, as a joke.  She smiles. 

            “Even me.  It’s really up to you to decide who is worth the hurt and who isn’t.  Of course,” she warns, “that doesn’t mean you should let people walk all over you.  If he hurts you again—” she shakes her head and takes a little breath.  “Just think about it.  Be honest with yourself.  If he’s good for you, you’ll know it.”  She looks back up at me and smiles.  “Now, you know I’m not one of those crazy mothers who wants you to get married right away.” 

            “Believe me, I know,” I say, widening my eyes.  She’d never taken my two high school boyfriends seriously, always mixing up my newer boyfriend with my previous boyfriend, even calling him the wrong name on prom night while she snapped our photo.  In college, she warned me not to get married right after graduation.  Mom’s stance on love and marriage has always been clear to me—don’t rush. 

            “I just want you to be happy,” Mom says.  “Everything will work out, and you’ll do what’s best for you.” 

            We chitchat about my job for the rest of dinner; Mom always has solid career advice.  When the check comes, we politely fight over it like grown-ups, and she finally snatches it from me.  “Let me take care of you, even if it’s just paying for this,” she insists.  How can you say no to that?

            I drive Mom back to the hotel, and by the time we arrive, she’s already tapping away on her smartphone.  “You’re always working,” I say.  Her screen is lit up with a website boasting lamps of all different sizes, colors, and styles.

            “I have a meeting with a client tomorrow morning,” she says vaguely, and clicks her phone off to give me a hug and a kiss.  “It was wonderful seeing you, Ryan,” she says, giving me an extra squeeze. 

            “You too, Mom.” 

            She opens the car door but adds, “Remember, I know you’re all grown up but I’m still your mother.  If you need anything, just call.”  I nod and blow her a little kiss. 

            “Love you!” 

            By the time I get home, it’s nine PM and I’m exhausted.  It’s been a long week, so I put on my softest fleece pants and curl up in bed with my phone.  I have a good night message from Mom already, a text from Kolby asking me to listen to her radio show tomorrow morning, and one from Cam. 

            “Can’t wait to see you tomorrow!” it reads.  I smile, and fall asleep before I can send a reply.