My Mom, the Spy
Mom always knew what I had plotted to do, even before I’d
done anything. When I was a teenager, heading out the door
to my friend’s house where we conspired to stay up all
night making prank phone calls and watching the forbidden
"R" rated movies, she would forewarn, "behave yourself" or
"don’t even think about it." How did she know?
Obviously, she could read my face. As it
turned out, we spent most nights committing perjury in
front of the mirror, watching for subtle changes in our
facial expressions and vowing to never play
high-stakes-poker with her.
Randomly, during the school year, she
would ask if my grades were good -- to which I would
always respond in the affirmative. "Look me in the eyes,"
she would say. Oh no, not the eyes! It was a truth serum
no one could deny. My teenage subterfuge tactics were no
match for her all knowing eyes. I, predictably, spent the
remainder of the semester studying in my room.
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Clearly, she had completed a detailed
regimen of specialized training. She was accomplished at
her craft; the best in her field. Whenever a toy broke in
our house, mom knew how to fix it (High-tech Gadgetry
Repair 101). The picture in her High School annual didn’t
even resemble her (obviously, a master of disguise). And,
she apparently had instruction as a Quick-Change artist.
In the blink of an eye, she could progress from point A:
making breakfast for the family while still in her
bathrobe and sporting pink foam curlers hair curlers, to
point B: dressed to the nines and ready to leave the house
for church.
Her stealth-mode capabilities annoyed me
most. The minute I divulged a deep, dark secret to my best
friend, there she was, out of nowhere.
Never mind the fact that she spoke in
unbreakable code to her "friends" on the telephone, but
she hid Christmas presents so even foreign intelligence
satellites couldn’t locate them.
The guilt glare topped her repertoire.
Presumably, a secret bio-chemical compound tainted her
searing stare, rendering me helpless to its power. Even
the strongest of super heroes would fold under the
pressure. Confessions spilled out of me, before I even had
a chance to think.
Her extra sensory perception spanned
space and time. While I was away at college (300 miles
from home), she somehow knew I was living on junk food,
leaving my dirty clothes on the floor, and staying up too
late gabbing with my roommate, prompting me to sweep the
dorm room for listening devices.
Finally, and most mystifying of all, mom
always had an endless supply of tissues in her pocket. I
don’t know exactly how this fits into the whole "spy
thing," but it’s true just the same.
