The other day, I went on a date with my mom. It was a regular Friday but instead of going home as I seem to do just about every Friday night, I had plans...with my mom. We drove up to Portland to go to a movie. Our mission: to watch The Sisterhood of Traveling Pants 2. Instead of going to the show that started when we arrived, we opted to go to the later showing and grab some dinner and do a little shopping in the meantime. We wandered the mall, made a few unnecessary purchases, and went to eat at Macaroni Grill, my mom's favorite restaurant.
And so it was. We had dinner, talked about our lives and as my mother took her first bite of dessert, a horrific look came across her face. "I'm full," she said.
"No you are not. Have one more bite," was my response.
She didn't try any more but watched as I sifted through the questionably textured apple dessert.
When we finally left the restaurant, we went back up to the movie theater. After each set of escalators, my mom had to stop. I know she was often cursed with motion sickness but after an escalator...seriously. We reached the top and...she had to throw up. Instead of spewing out on the spectators four floors down, she rushed to the bathroom where she blew chunks.
It was just a regular night hanging out with my mom. What more could I ask for?
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