Mothers

When Brian was in Afghanistan, I came up with all kinds of interesting ways to pass the lonely time until he returned. One of my more exciting ideas was to purchase a henna tattoo kit and draw henna tattoos on myself and on Brian's sister. In Brian's mother's kitchen. Under her slightly mortified but tolerating eye. There's probably a special place in heaven for Brian's mom for having me as a daughter-in-law.

I drew a Celtic infinity sign on the top side of my foot and a sun design on Brian's sister's arm. Both were simple locations to keep uncovered for the requisite length of time while the henna dried. Brian's mother wince-smiled every time she passed us in the living room drying our fake tattoos. We were several hours in this process while the January snow grew in mounds outside.

As the henna dries, it looks dreadful. We were understandably nervous about the results when it came time to wash the crud off. But! Our henna art was marvelously successful and we were both immensely proud of our handiwork. We called upon siblings and some conveniently visiting neighbors to admire our artwork with us. They cheerfully obliged and half an hour passed in this enjoyable occupation. Even Brian's mother managed a half-hearted grin, though she refrained from any official comment. But about then I had to leave to meet my mother before changing for work.

In the parking lot outside work, my mother handed me some clothes or whatnots I'd left at her house. Still elated with my fake tattoo, I eagerly popped my foot onto the passenger seat of the car where my mother could get a fine view of it. I knew she wouldn't be affectedly proper about a fake tattoo and waited for a minute to hear her commentary. I expected something typically motherish . . . "Very nice, Maile, dear." Something along those lines.

My mother stared at my tattoo while an eye-roll and a smile crept across her face. "Maile," she paused and her head tilted to one side, "child, why are you wearing flip-flops in January?"

Mothers.