So my mom calls last night.
Her purpose is to razz me about my signature.
Seems mom was balancing her checkbook and came across a check she sent me for my birthday back in February.
"What kind of signature is that?" she cackled into the phone.
"What are you talking about?" I asked
"The way you endorsed the check I sent you" she said.
This is followed by a debate on generations and how sloppy handwriting has gotten over the years. In typical Catholic guilt fashion, she tossed in: "I thought I taught you better."
Like some how my shitty handwriting is a reflection on my mother.
She quickly segued into how I should take Spencer to church.
"When he's old enough to sit through mass, I will take him," I said.
"He can't even sit still or be quiet in a movie theater," I said.
"You've taken him to the movies?" she says all surprised like that was a bad thing.
"How many times have you taken him to the movies?" she asked.
"Once," I said. "And it was a bad idea, he wouldn't shut up or sit still."
She confesses that my sister has taken her kids, triplets who are one year older than Spencer,
to a movie theater once.
"But you could go show him what a church is," she said.
"Mom, he knows what a church is," I said.
"Well go when there's no mass and show him around. Or," she paused, "take him to a synagoge."
Adding that last part in an effort to not seem too insensitive to the fact that I'm married to a Jewish girl.
"But I don't know when they are open," she added.
Gotta love her old school sensibilities.