I Don't Know What it is

Momma and Jacque

My mom thinks I'm out to get her.

Somehow, I manage to take a lot of really bad pictures of her. And they are so funny.

I don't know how it happens. I like to take pictures when people aren't all posed. Which usually means the people in my pictures don't know I'm taking them.

My mom will be sitting there, being all cute and then somehow right as I snap the photo, her face contorts into scary mutations.

My mom is convinced I'm doing this on purpose.

Okay, I'll admit this: I've even admitted to her that I am guilty of taking a few pictures of her while she is sleeping. But it's been a long time since I've done so and those pictures really don't compare to the accidental bad pictures I've taken.

I've done all I can. I start feeling like I'm drowning in a sea of guilt. No matter how hard I try to convince her otherwise, my mom still thinks I'm evil.

It appears Jacque feels the same way.

Somehow, I always manage to ruin Jacque's meals. When I pick up Taco Shop, it always turns out that somehow, Jacque's meal is always short a burrito. One time, I made a peach dessert and out of the whole giant pan, Jacque got the one piece that had something hard in it. I don't know if it was a peach pit or what, but Jacque got it.

Tonight, I was hanging out with Jacque and Evan. Evan ate his dinner while Jacque and I took twenty minutes to decide what sounded good for our meal.

We finally decided on Taco Shop and I headed out the door to pick it up. "What do you want?"

"A number two."

"Numero dos? Mild? With a Dr. Pepper?"

"Yes, please."

"I am awesome! I always know exactly what you want!" I cheered myself as I walked to my car.

When I came back, I bragged about how I had even looked through the bag to make sure everything was there. As I dished out the food Jacque just looked at me funny.

"What? I even got more sauce! What? Oh . . ."

Turns out, even after going on about the numero dos I was going to order, I had ordered us both a number three.

No. I don't know what was going on in my brain.

But for the rest of the night, I had the same feeling. The same embarrassment and guilt that I feel when I try to explain to my mom that "I didn't mean to!"

Like the time Mom sent Marcus and I to Sonic to get pop for all of us. Somehow, I spilled Mom's Vanilla Coke in the car.

From Mom's reaction, you would have thought I took the cup and slammed it against the dash just to condemn her to a death by thirst.

And for two days, I felt bad. It ate at me. Just like I'm still feeling bad for making my mom go absolutely crazy about pictures.

When I was home for a weekend about a month ago, my dad and I were watching Nacho Libre. Mom had fallen asleep on the couch. Dad and I were laughing at the movie when I heard my mom murmur "Stop taking pictures of me!"

"What are you talking about?"

She lifted her head and looked around to see my camera resting on the television, far from my reach. "I thought you were taking pictures of me sleeping."

Great. I've driven my mother absolutely bonkers.

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