I have nothing but sweet memories of this house. The pale yellow paint and white shutters have remained the same throughout the years. The garden is covered in roses and carnations, my mom’s favorite, of course. The rockers are sitting on the porch, the same ones that belonged to my Gramps and Grammy. Carved in some fancy wood, they’ve been passed down through the generations. The warm air touches my skin, and just when I’m about to shed some more tears, my dad comes out carrying what looks like road kill.
“Here’s my little Poodle!”
I cringe at the nickname, stepping forward and walking into his arms. His overbearing hug and scent of wooden musk engulfs me and I burst into tears, once again.
“I missed you, Dad,” I babble like a baby through my tears.
“Aww, you got those damn hormones your mother did,” he says, kissing the top of my head.
He lets go and takes a good look at me. I’m wearing a pair of cotton shorts and a shirt that has ‘Turkey Baking’ written on it. My belly is popping out; in fact, over the past week it decided to grow tremendously and could no longer be concealed no matter what I wore. What was that about feeling like a beached whale again?
“You’re looking beautiful, Poodle. You got that glow to you.”
“Step away, George, and let me see my daughter.”
My mom is standing behind him, dressed in a fluorescent pink yoga outfit, much to my surprise. She hasn’t changed much since I saw her last, her bangs still cut like she’s rocking an 80’s video clip, and it wouldn’t hurt her to wear a bra once in a while. Nevertheless, I was told on numerous occasions we looked like sisters. Apparently, she had a youthful glow, or perhaps I looked like an old soul. Let’s stick to the youthful glow story to boost my ego.
“Come here, give me a hug.” She smiles.
I step forward and embrace her. Leaning my head on her shoulder, I’m happy to admit that it’s good to come home. What I needed was some quality time with my family. That, and to get ridiculously spoiled.
“George, take her bags up to her room. Honey, you have to eat something. It’s not about you anymore. I know you city girls are into all these fad diets but if you don’t eat and gain nutrients the baby could be born with God knows what.”
“Mom, I’ve been eating. And would it kill you to wear a bra?”
“I read an article about how bras can increase your risk of breast cancer. Your dad seems to enjoy it.”
I wince at the mental image. “Oh my god! You did not just say that.”
As I walk through the house I see that nothing has changed, apart from a ridiculous looking exercise thingamajig in the living room. Hanging on the walls are several photos of Gemma and me throughout our childhood. I take a moment to stand in the hallway and look at the photos, so much fun and laughter hanging on this one wall. I rest my hands on my stomach and hope that one day my child will get to experience everything I did. That would most likely require me finding a husband and having more children. Do not have this conversation with yourself now, you sadistic fool!
There is a photo of Jason and me sitting in a small frame amongst the others. I remember the day clearly—it was the first summer I brought him here to meet my family. We are sitting in a boat, him behind me with his arms wrapped around my waist. Laughing out loud, I recall just afterward when we both fell into the lake accidentally. It’s a great memory, and so as not to get too caught up in nostalgia, I go in search of my mom.
I settle into the kitchen as my mom prepares lunch for us. As we all sit down to enjoy the meal, my mom takes this opportunity to lecture me on everything I should have done, should be doing, and basically how I should raise this kid until he or she is in college. Only my mom could have an entire conversation with herself while I devour the homemade pie in front of me. My dad polishes off three beers as she rambles on. By the end, we both stare at her until she realizes she’s been talking to herself.
“Honestly, the two of you are like peas in a pod. Can’t get anyone to listen in this household,” she rattles off, moving towards the sink as she starts to wash up.
My dad shrugs his shoulders and heads out the back door with his fishing hat on.
Even at the sink, my mom continues to talk a mile a minute. I take my cell out of my pocket looking for some social media relief when I see a text on the front screen.
#Jerk: Hope you got there safe. I’ve got my black belt packed.
With mom still going on about breastfeeding versus bottle feeding, I scramble to send him a text before she realizes I’m not paying attention.
Me: Pack a new set of ears. My mom has not stopped talking since I got here. Apparently, I should be looking at colleges now because there’s a waiting list.
The exhaustion from traveling finally catches up with me, so I excuse myself to take a short nap. I wake up in a blind panic, and disorientated, I realize I have slept through to the morning. My mom didn’t even have the balls to wake me. The time on my cell says eight, and that red badge is sitting on my home screen.
#Jerk: We, Presley. We should be looking. We’re both parents to this baby.
Huh? There is no time to think about his text as I race out of bed and into the shower. Within minutes I’ve hopped out and dressed myself in a simple white dress that sits a lot shorter than normal. With my wedges on and my hair tied into a bun to avoid the sweltering heat, I make my way downstairs. The aroma of pancakes lingers in the air, which can only mean one thing—maple syrup. So I’m eating for two, and boy did my mother stack them on the plate!
As predicted, my mom eyes my dress. “That dress is a bit short, don’t you think?”
Rolling my eyes at her, the stupid side of me mentions that I haven’t really purchased any maternity wear apart from that black dress. With a light bulb going off in her head, she rushes to the bottom of the stairs.
“I’ve got a box of stuff in the attic! George!” she yells to my dad.