It’s as though Life gets bored with low-action circumstances so to spice things up, it bets against us. It assumes it knows which cards we’re holding – or more importantly, which cards we’re not holding – but all its smack-talking comes to an abrupt halt when either you or your patna (partner) throw down that Two of Spades which cuts its King of Clubs.
You count the books and see that your team collectively has seven books and one of you is the fool that slaps the remaining highest Spade onto her oily forehead 👏🏾 face 👏🏾 up, rubbing your imminent victory and your opponents’ imminent defeat in its face.
Take that, Life. 😆
My sweet girl gets angsty about stuff. She gets that from her momma. It can be the ittiest Math equation or which dress to wear or deciding between two-strand twists and a curly afro, but in these moments, in her mind, the Earth is about to fall off its axis.
My daughter came to me with an anxiety-initiating problem and she expected me to solve it. And though I wanted to, to be empathetic and sugary and to gas her up like I usually do, I simply couldn’t. I didn’t have it in me. It was three hours ‘til bedtime and I was dealt very bad cards. My hand was full of low Diamonds and middle-of-the-pack Hearts. Quite frankly, I didn’t even feel like playing anymore. “You gotta stop being so angsty about stuff!” I
encouraged admonished semi-yelled. And she stood there with the tears pouring down her precious baby-girl face that I genuinely believed would dehydrate her if I didn’t something quickly.
And Life looked at me with that smirk. 😏
What am I supposed to do, Jesus? I’m empty.
So I did the only thing I knew to do.
I pulled back my bedding so she could join me under the covers, and I whipped out the Big Joka – I Face-timed Nanna.
Reese didn’t want to at first. That’s part of the angst; you know you need help but are some combination of ashamed and embarrassed and terrified to ask for it. I let the phone keep ringing even though my girly-girl had buried her head under the covers and was scooting ever closer to the foot of my bed.
Momma picked up.
“How are you doing, my precious daughter?”
I skipped the pleasantries because I knew I could:
“Momma, would you tell Reese that it’s going to be OK?”
“Reese. My darling grandgirl. It’s gonna be OK, Baby.”
She picked up where I left off. She had an excellent hand. My mother told my daughter how precious she is. She told her how she has always been impressed with the mature decisions she makes. Nanna told my first-born to Earth that she makes her laugh, that she’s such a great care-giver to her little cousin, and how much fun they have together when they play in her wigs.
*slaps last highest Spade onto oily forehead*
It worked. It always does. My mom is just outstanding. I like the way I feel after I talk to her. She makes me feel good, and in these COVID days and nights, I hadn’t felt that way in a very long time, but just a lil’ talk with Jesus and my Momma made it right.
That’s all, y’all. Just shouting out my mom.
In what ways has your mom made you feel good? Let me know in the comments!