Growing up I had a nickname for my mother. It was Franbo. Franbo came from a long line of Jewish Kickboxers, and she loved to clean house. Literally. My mom would tie a handkerchief over her hair, and if you didn’t hop-to washing walls, you’d be in for it.
This is a picture I drew to show you just how much business she meant. It was terrifying. Well, not terrifying. Just terrible. I hated washing walls. You had a bucket of soapy water and a rag, and you had to scrub off all the handprints you’d put there on your way down to the basement to play Super Mario Brothers. Also, if you left any personal belongings downstairs too long they would face being thrown on “the bottom of the heap”. Wherever that was.
My mom was a cleaning machine. Better than the alternative, but not so great when you got to be her unpaid assistants. I’m pretty sure I threatened to call Child Protective Services one time when I was asked to help with the dishes. I was seven.
Looking back, I know that in reality I did virtually no chores, but man did I hate when I had to. I had a thriving social life (reading Sweet Valley High) that couldn’t be interrupted.
I was a brat!
Love you, Mom! I’m sorry I was such a rotten kid! Please don’t karate chop me when you read this! See you for Thanksgiving! I’ll even help you clean…
Your loving daughter