I Am Not Your Mother

I Could Never Be Your Mother 1/2

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☼ I - C O U L D - N E V E R - B E - Y O U R - M O T H E R ☼

"I could never be your mother,

Because she does everything for you.

I could never be your mother,

Because I cannot deal with your whining.

I could never be your mother,

Because I'm not so great a cook.

I could never be your mother,

Because I am not her.

I refuse to be her."

-Oliv T.

"I simply cannot love you like that. I can only love you like this."

That's what I told Paollo, as we lay holed-up in our room. Just after one of our mediocore "frisky" moments. What he calls "risque" I call popping a button on my blouse, because it's freakin' sweltering outside.

It was summer.

So what?

We sat in bed, watching re-runs of 'How I Met Your Mother'.

He didn't Want to get up and save me from his blasts, so he farted in the bed. Under the covers. For the ump-teenth time.

I wasn't counting exactly, I was just constantly in fear of passing out.

He'd pulled over fifteen dutch-ovens that day. Just after he had taquitos for lunch. I, of course, had a burrito-bowl from Chipotle, but I didn't express my appreciative thoughts through a gastic-release right on his freshly showered, closely shaved, legs, now did I?

And I was so not complaining. Honest.

Well, I didn't voice the obtrusive fact aloud, at least. Maybe I should have.

There wasn't a single "Excuse me" muttered. Not once.

Not even a "Pardon my lil' tooter down there!" No Whoopsies, no Sorrys, and definitely not an "Excuse me."

Cuz that's just too freakin' much to ask, right?

He asked me to set out his clothes for him. Again. Then he asked me to make his breakfast. Again. Then he wanted me to drive him in to work. Again. He's been working at the local pizza place. For eleven years.

It's not so much his job, but the fact that he won't drive his own car, that bothers me.

The company gives him a car, and they let him use it outside of work, too. But he "doesn't wanna push his luck," so he has me to drive him to and from work.

I have my own job. I'm never late to work. Thank God, but I'd love some extra time to just relax, and have some tea in the morning.

I really would. Vanilla Chai, has got to be a pure gift from God.

But maybe, just maybe, Paollo could do things for himself. Just once.

I know I don't help him with every little thing, but do I really need to set out his clothing?

A twenty-eight year old man, needs to know how to dress himself. Really.

So, that day, as I went on my way to pick up Paollo from the Pizza Palace, on the third corner of Main Street, I kept glancing back at my bags already packed, full of all of my personal belongings.

I didn't even have much. I travel light, and I don't bother with Glitz N' Glam. I had about sixteen outfits total, not to mention the possible combinations. I had my two dresses, which I have only worn once each. The only time I wore my special dinner dress was when my friend Laury made me try it on in the store.

    I had my toiletries, no detail, my seven pairs of shoes, with one pair of heels, four pairs of converse, and the the other two were just black or brown flats. I also packed a few momentos.

Of course I packed pictures of Ollo, my nickname for Paollo, and I. I'm in love with the guy. But I can't coddle him for the rest of our lives. I don't do coddling. I want to be with a guy who can take care of me, along with himself. Sure, I know Ollo loves me, but I'm not gonna be on standby and watch as he slowly deflates into a mush-noodle while I do all the work. And I do mean all of the work.

I clean the house, I make the food, I wash the clothes, I drive each of us to and from work, and I still find a way to love Ollo despite the odds.

I love him a lot.

And that's what makes it so hard.