I’m a b*tch.

Seriously, how many times have you thought it.  Holy crap, that woman is such a bitch.  She’s sarcastic and thinks she funny, even when she’s not.  She’s so damn confident and thinks so much of herself.  I have friends, good friends who would describe me as a bee with an itch.  The one thing for sure if you have known me for more than 5 minutes it’s likely that you know that I’m not someone who holds her tongue.  Ask me for my opinion, you’ll get it.  It’s only in the last few years that I’ve been able to keep an opinion to myself.  And to be fair, that’s not exactly something that I do very often.  I have friends I’ve known since kindergarten who I know damn well and they will tell you, I speak my mind.  Fortunately for me, these traits are rapped in a pretty awesome package.  I’m also compassionate, love my family fiercely and use the mind I’ve been given for mostly good things.  I have a sense of humour and although it can be dry, I can laugh at silly jokes just as quickly.  I’m extremely protective of the members of our society that are on the fringe.  I have no tolerance for injustice and I have a strong sense of where I came from and where I’m going.  I’m a person who not only knows her tree but also her roots.

I am this person that I am because I come from good stock.  After 2 strapping boys and a move from her home country, and another baby that cried for 6 months straight, my mother decided to go for just one more.   We tease in my family that I’m the “accident”.  I always reply that I’m the company for the “accident” that happened 4 year before me.  Whatever the circumstance, 15 years after her first baby my mother decided to have me.  After all those ‘jeans & t-shirts’ she was finally getting HER girl.  She was rewarded with the anti-girl.   I can’t imagine why she believed she would get this sweet little girl who would be all sugar & spice (clearly delusional that one) but she got me instead.  I was a rebel from the beginning.  She named me the wrong name so I changed it.  At three.  Yep up and changed my name.  That should have given her a clue of the years to come.  No one deserves a gold star more than my mom for raising me through my teenage years.

Today is my mothers birthday.  She was born on this day in 1928 in Trinidad.  She was always top of her class and the best and the brightest.  She’s been a teacher, a nurse, an occupational therapist.  She’s worked full time while completing university and earned her masters degree in Educational Psychology with two young kids at home.  She worked nights and went to school in the day.  She did this all while attending basketball games and school recitals.  When she was a young girl she wanted nothing more than to learn to play the piano.  So after retirement she has, she takes her weekly lesson and plays her beloved piano and the family all go to see her perform at her yearly recitals.  My mother and I are the same as we are different.  We disagree about everything from the colour of the sky to the clothes on my back.  I often tell people that if they want to know what I’ll be like later in life,  just look at my mother, but less annoying.  For some reason my children laugh at the last part.  When she fell a couple years back and broke her knee (on her way to piano lessons of course) her grandchildren took shift staying with her.  Caring for her and making sure Granny was okay.  This was the male grands just as much as the female ones. In fact, one of the guys when asked if he felt comfortable taking care of his grandmother said ‘she’s family, she’s granny, of course I’ll take care of her’.    You don’t get that kind of love and affection unless you have cultivated it.  And my mother has done that.

But make no mistake, she’s a bitch.  Thanks God for that, I don’t know where I would be if I hadn’t been raised by someone who knows how to take care of themselves and the people around them with such a ferociousness that it’s breathtaking to watch.  She probably wouldn’t describe herself in that way, cause the whole negative connotation of the word, but from me, it’s high praise.  Ask her about the incident with my grade 4 teacher and the computer time sometime…..it’s a beaut.

Happy Birthday Yvonne.

3 comments

    • Cheryl on September 14, 2010 at 7:57 pm

    Did not know you when you were a really young one, got to know you a bit when you were 15ish all the way to 18…I never really considered you a bitch – just someone you could ask a question of and actually get the truth from. Let’s try refreshing, strong willed, iron minded, mule headed etc., etc.; but not a bitch, that’s reserved for the nassssty people of the world. From what I can remember of your Mom, the apple did not roll too far from the tree. Hugs Missy!

    • becks on September 14, 2010 at 10:18 pm

    I love reading your posts. You’re such an awesome writer. Im thinking of taking writing classes. Im not a natural like you. Love the flat, the coffee machine and the kids look adorable!

    • Kristinma on September 15, 2010 at 6:41 am

    Happy Birthday Yvonne ~ you’re the mother of my sister from another mother and
    for that, I respect you and thank you!

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