My Mother The Firecracker

I wouldn't exactly characterize my mom as simply a firecracker. She is more like that type of firecracker that doesn't light up the first time, but when you walk back to it after waiting a safe 10 minutes, the damn thing just explodes in your face, throwing shrapnel to and fro. So I guess more of a landmine with a delay timer. That, my friend, is my mother.

Lately, I've been contemplating giving the whole marriage idea a heave-ho and throwing in the towel in the tricky game of dating. Dating is a true blood sport that I will never be able to keep up with. Then I started dreaming what sort of a life I'd want as a spinster. Children can still be an option. I can have my very own designer baby shipped in from Ethiopia nowadays for god's sakes! What is better than screwing up our future generations by raising a fatherless child in a multiracial setting?! Welcome to the 2010s.

I decided to run this idea by my mother first. After all, a mother's opinion should be held in the highest regard. Unfortunately, the conversation did not go the way I was expecting it. She was taking a nap in the living room. With the sudden urge to run the idea by her, I nudged her awake and asked "Mommy, what would you do if I had a black baby?" Her eyes were bloodshot and she gave me a mean stare. I recoiled and put up my boxing fists. "WHY?!" she said very loud and bluntly, all the while staring at my stomach area. "WHY ARE YOU ASKING ME THIS?"

Uh oh. I guess we really hit a language barrier. I was hoping for a heartwarming conversation about how adopted children will be part of the family no matter what flavor of the month they are. She, on the other hand, mistook this confrontation as a confession that I was "with child," a black child nonetheless.

I concluded the conversation by saying "nevermind" and walked away. Far away. We haven't discussed it since. But you never know when that favorite landmine of mine will blow. There will be body parts. Beware.