I am Carol's Daughter.

(Photo of my mom and my son's hands--Instagram)

At 44 years of age, I have now had several reminders that I am, in fact, my mother's daughter.  I forget my children's names when I'm trying to gain their attention.  I make up words when I can't remember the one I'm looking for in mid-sentence.  I flare my nose when I get angry.  Look, I'll take it--all of it--because she's a wonderful lady.  Salt of the earth, that one.  I can only hope to be half the woman my mother is someday.

This weekend, I was reminded that I was like her in another way.

Saturday evening, I was at my friend Jen's house.  We had just finished eating a lovely dinner, and we were settling in to scrap the evening away.  Her son was upstairs sleeping off a ski trip, and she excused herself upstairs to change into her pj's.  There I was, all alone in her awesome scrapbook room, all by my lonesome. 

So her scrapbook room has wooden floors and two nice office chairs.  You know--the big heavy ones that tilt and swivel and roll, with arms and everything.  I was sitting in one of those lovely chairs, and I bent over to reach down for a pair of scissors.  And it happened.  Right then and there, it happened.

The chair flew up behind me.  I found myself on all fours, my face in my scrapbook bag.  The chair landed on my back.  Paper and stickers flew.  For the love of God and all things holy--this happened in the blink of an eye, with a thud that was probably heard 3 doors down.  Don't ask me why--but this struck me as funny.  Like, CRAZY funny.   And I couldn't stop laughing.  You know--laughing to the point of hyperventilating and snorting to gain air laughing.  And I couldn't stop.

And in my efforts to get said chair off my back, I wedged myself under her scrapbook table.  So I was stuck.  Stuck, I tell you, like I've never been stuck before.  I'm lucky to be typing this blog post right now, my hand to God.

So I hear someone coming, and for some reason, I find this even funnier.  I try to mutter, "HELP!", but nothing came out.  I removed my glasses because tears had been streaming down my face, so I couldn't see that well.  But I had noticed that her son Ethan ran down the stairs to check out that noise, panned the area, didn't see me pinned underneath the desk, and went back upstairs.

And on that note, I started laughing even harder.

Thank God there was no video of this.  I mean, THANK. GOD.  Seriously, my amazing fortune that Jen was upstairs, because you know there would've been pictures of the scene, for this I am sure.  Pardon my French here, but the last thing you or I need is to be scarred by photos of my big ass pinned under a table.  I'm keeping it real here, folks.  And that's what friends are for, right?  The experience was bad enough in itself--I didn't need to be blackmailed by the bestie.  (For the record here, I totally would've photographed her if the situation was reversed--ha!)

By the time Jen came down in her comfy clothes, I managed to get myself out of my hellish situation.  But I couldn't explain what happened for another 5 minutes, because as soon as I would catch my breath from laughing, something would tickle me about this visual of me under the table, and I would start laughing hysterically all over again.

The rest of the evening, I kept one foot on the floor at all times, while gripping the table top whenever the chair moved slightly.  Yeah.  Pretty much scarred me.  Crazy-ass demonic chair.  Again, pardon my French.

Re-reading this, I'm wondering if I hit my head.

I do not care about the bruise on my knee or the sharp pain I have when I turn to the left.  The mental scars are far worse for me.  Again--I'm just thankful there was no video or photographs of my graceful episode, and that I was the only one there to bear witness.  Oh. My. Word.

Thank you, Mom, for showing me by example that it is wonderful to laugh at yourself with reckless abandon, and to be yourself.  Thank you for your humility, your wisdom, and your silliness, and for seeking that out in others.

Thank you for laughing with me when I repeated this story at breakfast, even when I had to stop and gain my composure because I still found it as funny this morning.   

And thank you for saying, "My Lord, you really are just like me!"

Someone, warn my daughter.

Enjoy your day!