We the Cheese

1: Sucky things

Moving sucks.

Officially.

Moving includes simple steps, I'll agree with that. Moving includes happy, fuzzy, enjoyable feelings? Uh, negative.

Moving sucks.

And I will also agree that I'm not weak, so not being able to lift boxes wasn't a problem. Not wanting to lift boxes or pack things in boxes or tape shut boxes or label boxes or touch boxes or look at boxes or think about boxes, that was the problem.

Well, it wasn't a problem to me. But it was a huge, just absolutely ginormous problem to my mother.

I'm her oldest child, and we all know that oldest children are expected to lift boxes and pack things in boxes and tape shut boxes and label boxes and touch boxes and look at boxes and think, about boxes.

My mother has been repeatedly calling my name (because I'm the oldest), insisting we finish moving the furniture out of the living room before we call it a day. Little did she know I'd called it a day about two hours ago. And so had my brother, but he had actually gotten to call it a day whereas my call had went unanswered. Which sucks. A lot.

She's my mom though, and I'm her son. I love my mama. I would do anything for my mama. Anything not meaning everything, of course. Especially not putting things in boxes, taping shut boxes, labeling boxes, touching boxes, looking at boxes, and thinking about boxes.

I wanted to lay in my bed and sulk to myself about this whole moving fiasco. But apparently sulking is a no-no in this family. And that sucks, because, you know, this is my family.

Ugh, life is so unfair.

I heard the stomp of my mother's feet as she, well, stomped up to my room. My pinkie toe had already been practically ripped off of my foot because of Mother dropping the couch on my foot and then freaking out and attempting to push it off. Yeah, that was painful. And, sucky.

A pillow was thrown at my face, a poor attempt to get me up. Another pillow was thrown at my face, and still it had no affect on me whatsoever. By the third pillow, my willingness to stay in bed had increased and so had my irritation.

"Mom," I groaned, "I'm busy".

"What, sulking?" I could almost see her standing with a manicured hand on her hip.

"Yes!" I exclaimed, "You finally get it!"

"Oh my God, your such a teenager," She informed in a the way mothers do.

"Well, yeah I am seventeen. Teen being the key word." I stated.

"See, you just proved my point." Seeming victorious she added.

"A point that had already been proven."

"That didn't make sense."

"Yes it did."

"No it didn't."

"Yes it did." I argued, intent on winning the debate.

"You know we could go back and forth all day, but since I'm the parent and its expected of me, I'm going to be the bigger person," Mom decided.

"As the bigger person, what will you do?"

"For starters I'm going to ground you if you don't quit acting like your mother." She threatened.

"You are my mother."

"So?" She questioned.

"Never mind."

"Good."

This is how it went. Mom would ask me something, either it was spoken or not. I'd reply sarcastically or sassy. Then she'd have a reply that was sarcastic or sassy. And then my brother would ask what's for dinner.