I’ve finally released the delusion that my mom is Wonder Woman. No, not like a figurative my-mom’s-a-superhero…like straight up my mom is Linda Carter.
When I was little, I also believed my mom was Donna Summer. I truly thought that she didn’t want me to behave like a superstar’s child so she sorta’ pulled a Clark Kent-Superman thang each day. Like she told me she was going to work in an office, but she was really selling out Madison Square Garden.
So yeah, I’m finally seeing my mother for exactly who she is. She is a gorgeous, flawed, and loving human being that I’m lucky to share genes with. Now she does drive me up the wall at times, but I have learned how to paint over the shoe marks. You know, after she’s driven me up the wall. C’mon…you get where I’m going.
And then there’s my grandmother, who just celebrated her 93rd birthday.
I relish sitting around with my grandmother and mom laughing, disagreeing, and talking. Talking about nothing. Talking about everything. I learn more about the timelessness of womanhood by simply being in their presence.
It’s sorta’ like this Red Table Talk with Jada Pinkett-Smith, her mom, and Willow Smith. Except during our “red tables” there’s profanity. A lot of profanity.