When I was six years old my mom decorated my bedroom with wallpaper from the movie The Black Hole. I’m guessing they ran out of nuclear mushroom clouds or fields of dead puppies.
. Every morning I woke, put on my little underwear, my little pants and little shirt and stared into this giant black hole, obliterating everything.
My mom is always reminding me nothing is permanent. She’s also really inappropriate. Eight months after she came out of the closet we were at P.F. Chang’s with my sister, our cousin and our Nana. My mom thought it’d be a good idea to tell everyone that when I was little I used to get boners sitting on her lap.
My sister spit out her Coke. Nana shook her head. I just kept eating my spring roll. “Mmmm, these are good.”
I’d like to say that my mom’s propensity for all things inappropriate started after she came out of the closet, that years of repression finally broke my mom’s Withholding Dam, causing every wild comment to fall out of her mouth like river water.
In third grade, my class had a Valentine’s Day party, where some of the kids’ mothers, including mine, brought in cupcakes and punch and put up red balloons. I told my mom I wanted to give Stacy B. a Valentine. My mom convinced me that a card wasn’t enough. She said I should give Stacy B. a rose, then get down on my knee and ask for a kiss. And, like an idiot, I did, because I was seven. My mom applauded as I begged for a smooch, while the entire class looked on in shock.
After school, Stacy beat my head into a locker until a teacher had to pry her off.
The crazy thing was, if my mom had told me to, I’d have begged Stacy for a kiss again. I trusted my mom blindly. I loved her. The same wildly inappropriate behavior that made people spit out Coke also made her an awesome mom. She’d stomp and cheer like mad during my little league games, even when I sucked, which was pretty much every game. We danced like maniacs to Kenny Rodger’s The Gambler in the living room. She’d look the other way when I snuck raw ground beef from the refrigerator. And when kids picked on me at school, my mom called them little shits and threatened to beat their asses. I was a severely emotional kid, and she’d hold me and kiss me and make me laugh. She’d tell me about a dream, which she called a vision, where a crowd of people carried me on their shoulders, because I’d saved the world.
My mom’s passion and spontaneity made her intoxicating, and my childhood was like a good bender, filled with howling laughter and big sobbing tears; delusions of grandeur and crushing embarrassment.
This is my first real blog post for My Gay Mom. Thanks for stopping by to check out the story of my amazing, ridiculous family.