“Darling, I have something very important to tell you; it’s so important that I -”

Mom? Mooooooooom? Hello? Like a dog distracted by a squirrel, she is already lost, silently shuffling across the kitchen, packing up my younger brother’s lunchbox. What could be so important that she slams on the breaks? Did she even notice?

I’ve learned to cherish my mom’s slow speaking because even though the speed is mildly annoying, at least she is going somewhere. The worst is when her brain freezes and her memory is wiped blank. It’s as if she never even knew she was talking in the first place. My dad, a Harvard Law grad, is known for being the sharpest tool in the shed, so when I switch over to my mom, I hit a roadblock. My dad can always get to his destination as the crow flies in the speediest way possible, and my mom takes all the detours (not to mention that her car is constantly breaking down). Maybe it’s just the teacher in her kicking in; she feels the need to go slow to ensure her audience is understanding her. But I do! It’s most confusing when she stops midway; I can’t understand sentence fragments. 

“Inside for recess today” --- who is the subject?

“Could you please go to” --- where do you need me to go?

“My favorite is when” --- what’s your favorite?

I take a step back and realize that my mom clearly hasn’t had enough caffeine. I’m surprised she’s not bald by now; I can’t get over the fact that my wreckless siblings and I haven’t caused all her hair to fall out as she stresses over countless projects and after-school activities day after day.

With a little bit of prompting, I edge my mother on.

“it’s so important that I -” ?

She spins around and looks me in the eye, nestling a ziploc bag with a peanut butter jelly sandwich into his blue lunchbox. 

“It’s so important that I can’t believe I haven’t said it already this morning.”

She pulls up a barstool, dramatically sighing as she sits down. I’ll play along; I know that’s just the teacher in her.

“I love you, Honey.”