Momma says...

I remember the day in graduate school when I woke up and realized that there was exactly no reason why I could not have ice cream for breakfast. Sure my Mom would probably have been horrified, no matter how much she loves ice cream, but I was an adult. I was on my own. And I was totally going to eat half a pint of ice cream for breakfast because why not?

So maybe not everything our parents tell us is completely legit. For instance, my niece and nephews are delighted to get cookies for good behavior. I'm wondering how old they will be before they realize that rice cakes are not cookies. I hope I'm there to see it. More often than not though, the things our parents tell us are for good reason. Because they were once our age. They know.

When I started driving on my own, my parents had a strict no-radio-in-the-car rule. I was sure it was the lamest, dumbest rule ever. I followed it for a while though because I was pretty sure they would know. I didn't know how they would know but maybe they would and maybe I would lose my car privileges. Of course, they explained to me that the rule was so that I wouldn't be distracted by the radio. Jeez guys I thought to myself it's driving, not rocket science. Years later, and thousands of miles of driving experience later, I could understand. I couldn't believe how unbelievable cocky I had been. Experience does matter and you can't teach it, no matter how much every parent ever probably wishes that they could.

So tonight I was baking some rolls and muffins for the week. Rushing to get everything done before dinner, I put some butter in the microwave to melt and didn't bother to cover it. I could hear my Mom in the background saying "You better have put something over that! You're cleaning it up if you make a mess! But seriously, in twenty years of baking, I have never once exploded butter in the microwave. I know how long it takes to melt it. Despite my spotless track record, I knew exactly what had happened when there was a loud BANG! from the microwave. I looked up abashed to see butter everywhere.

I mean, everywhere. It was dripping down the door. It had somehow gotten underneath the rotating tray. Don't even get me started on the ceiling of the microwave. It was coated and dripping and, in the back of my mind, I could hear how this would have played out at home. I would protest that something like this had never happened before and my Mom would point out that, eventually, it was bound to happen. That this wouldn't have happened if I had just covered the butter like she had asked. Next time Mom!

On the upside, our microwave hasn't been this clean since Thanksgiving. Otherwise known as "the last time Mom visited."