My Mother's Sweet Tooth

I never told my mother that her sweet tooth had set me on a path that would change my life forever. I was in my mid-thirties and still living at home, enjoying all the aspects of a single life. My friends and I would work hard Monday through Friday, go out partying on Friday and Saturday nights, and sleep in on Sundays. I had no real plans for the future; in fact, I thought I had all the time in the world. Boyfriends came and went, but I was not particularly fond of any of them, until I met the man who would become my husband. Initially, though, my attraction to him was lukewarm. He reminded me a lot of my mother, a kind, gentle soul, but not too interesting. He was sweet, let me do all the talking, and liked the home life. A future with him would be like marrying my mother. Maybe I was looking for a little more excitement and not so much stability.

My mother liked him; in him she saw a kindred spirit. We weren’t too far into the relationship when we had a big argument, over what I cannot remember. I am sure it had to do with my Democratic leanings, since he was from staunch Republican family. Me, I loved people and experiences and would spend all my money on country fairs, exotic restaurants, and travel. He, on the other hand, pinched every penny he had and counted his change at end of the every week. So we had a big row, and I flounced off back to home, vowing never to see him again.

One week later, I thought I would spend the weekend night at home, watching a move, popping some popcorn, and lounging on the couch. My mother was sitting next to me when, looking out the window, she announced, “Terry, there is a car pulling in the driveway! I think its Michael!”

I shot up from the couch, popcorn flying in every direction and scurried to the kitchen. I commanded my mother, “You tell him I am NOT home!”

I crouched next to the countertop, shielded by the fridge, so he could not look through the living room picture room and see me there. I could hear the muffled conversation at the screen door.

“Hello Janice, is Terry home?”

My mom fumbled around for words for a second and then said, “Um, I don’t know.”

He could see the popcorn all over the floor, as the dogs, not missing an opportunity, were busy gobbling it up. The movie was playing and he probably wondered: “How do you not know if your daughter is home in a little three-bedroom house?” Because she liked him and saw what he was carrying, she held up her finger and gave him a coy smile.

“Let me go check.” She walked into the kitchen, readily visible from the front door and began speaking to the fridge.

There I was crouched, hissing like a goose, “Get rid of him Mom! Send him away!”

“Oh, Terry,” she pleaded, “He’s got roses and CANDY.”

“I don’t care Mom, send him away!”

“It’s a BIG BOX of candy, Fannie May Chocolates!”

At this point, I figured I had to take charge of the situation, since Fannie May Chocolate was mother’s Achilles’ heel. So I stomped to the door, fists on my hips, and demanded to know what he wanted. My mother trailed behind me, hoping he was not going to be sent away without first leaving the box of chocolates.

Suffice it to say that we worked things out and were soon married. My mother got her box of candy that day, and I got beautiful roses. Because of my mother’s sweet tooth, I have been married to the kindest man alive for over thirty years, and I have an amazing daughter who is just like him. I was thoroughly irritated with my mother that day. But I never told her how thankful I was for her intervention. Yes, she sold me out for a box chocolates, but she purchased for me a wonderful life. I would not trade any of it for the world.