Pee monkey

My mother has a story she likes to tell about a time when I was getting potty trained. We were at my grandmother's house with some of her cousins, several of whom had young children themselves. They were all talking about what their kids were doing - where they were at with eating solids, first words, who was walking, that kind of stuff.

My mother was in her early twenties and eager to show off what her kids could do. She had brought the portable child toilet and had it set up in the middle of the group of ladies.

"He's been using the toilet for everything, watch this!" she said, and went to bring me over.

She put me down in front of the toilet, pulled my pants and underwear down, and told me to use the potty.

I stood there for a second, got beet red, covered myself with one hand, hid my face with the other, and cried.

My mother reminisces about how cute it was and also how it didn't even occur to her that it might embarrass me.

Erections of a comical nature

I remember one particularly embarrassing drive home from one of my many dentist appointments when I had braces. I was 15 at the time. At that age, my hormones were rampant, and that meant that I would get random erections, despite my best efforts not to. I would try focusing on the most un-sexy things I could think of, flexing one of my thigh muscles until it goes away - anything that would work.

That day, I was wearing basketball shorts and had an unfortunate erection, urged simply by the bumps on the highway and the chemical concoction raging through my body. Usually, I would be able to at least tuck it up in my waistband to be less obvious, but I was also sitting in the front seat next to my mother, who was driving us home.

With every moment I attempted to de-rectify the situation, my body only betrayed me. My only real move was to try to lean forward without drawing attention. It was pretty horrifying.

My mother started giggling, and I froze, hoping to God that if I just didn't move at all, I could will myself out of existence.

"You got a boner?" she asked.

If I were frozen before that, every molecule in my body experienced heat death in that moment.

She laughed.

"You know I've seen you have them before, I just haven't said anything," she said. "It's natural - It's funny!"

I continued looking down and shuffled as far into the car door as I could have gotten. After that, my memory is blurry; I'm not sure if either of us said anything else for the rest of the car ride.

To Cheek, or Not To Cheek

My mother liked to pinch my butt cheek. I remember it starting when I was around 12 years old. She always said I had such a cute butt and how it got cuter as I got older.

She was particularly bad about it when other people were around the house. As I got older, I was getting frustrated with her and thought there was a weird performative angle to it for some reason. When we had company over, she would often call me in from another room, and I could see on her face when she was in that kind of mood. Her face and neck would be as red as a tomato as she wore a weird shit eating grin.

She would tell me to come over and start talking to me about some nonsense while she walked up, and then whip behind me to pinch my butt.

I would tell her I hated that and to please stop it, and she would say how she just couldn't help herself to my "cute tushy". The guests would chuckle but sometimes tell her that I don't like that, and she would bat it away.

When I was 16, my frustration had gotten progressively worse. At one point, she did it again on a whim, with no guests around or anything. Just had to get one in, I guess. It made me upset, and this time I got mad about it - and at my mother - for the first time in my life.

"Please stop doing this. I do not want you to touch my butt. I don't like it," I said.

She took a step back and paused a moment.

"Um, I'm your mother, I can do what I want," she said.

"I don't care. Don't do it again," I insisted.

I had barely gotten the words out before I felt her hand slap across my face.

"You don't get to talk to me that way," she said with a finger pointed in my face.

That's one of the earliest memories I have of what I would call my blood boiling. I said nothing and left the house. I had wanted to tell her to stop for a long time, but I wanted to wait until I was 16 and had a car so I could leave afterwards.

My Luscious Locks

Up to the point I turned 18, I had always gotten the same "flat-top" style haircut that I'd gotten since I started getting haircuts. Same town, same barber, same haircut. Once I turned 18 and finally stopped going with my parents on their trip into town every Saturday, I experimented with some other hairstyles. It never went much further than just a normal, average dudes haircut. As long as it wasn't a flat-top, I was happy with it.

When 2020 came around, I decided to grow my hair out. With COVID making everything an unknown and me going remote for work, it was the perfect time to let it totally grow out without being too worried about it looking dumb.

My hair grows pretty fast, and in 6 months, it was past my shoulders. Turns out I have curly hair, very voluminous, and my mother was infatuated.

Soon after it was obvious I was growing my hair out, she would come up behind me and rub her hands through it, saying how gorgeous I was with it.

I was immediately uncomfortable with it, and the first time she did it, I instinctively jerked away. I immediately told her to please not do that again, and she did the usual batting away of said request.

It took another two or three times of this for me to get fed up. I was thinking about how exactly I would tell her to cut it out.

The opportunity came when, at one point, as we were leaving some family gathering, she handed me a stack of several pieces of mail that had accumulated for me. It was mail that was sent to their house, which was my old address. They were all opened and reviewed.

I asked her why she opened my mail, and she said it was an accident.

"You accidentally opened every piece of mail and read everything?" I asked.

She looked hurt. "Well, I just couldn't help myself, you're my baby boy," she said.

"I don't want you to open my mail," I said in response.

This is the kind of thing that I try not to respond to emotionally. In hindsight, it's largely due to how I was conditioned that my emotions were always trying to get me to sin. As an adult, I realize there are plenty of circumstances in which responding emotionally is extremely appropriate, and this was probably one of them.

Regardless, I waited until the next day to make sure I still felt the same way about it, and sent her a text message explicitly reinforcing what I had said before.

"I have asked you multiple times not to run your hands through my hair, and you continue to do so. There is no circumstance in which I ever want you to do that, and I am telling you not to do that again.

Additionally, I will make sure to update my mailing address everywhere. In the meantime, do not open any mail addressed to me. Not only is it a breach of privacy, but it is also a felony offense. I do not live with you any longer."

This sparked a long-winded, multi-day conversation in which my mother let me know that she was deeply hurt that I would have any reservations about her touching my hair or going through my mail. In the end, she was disappointed I was so laser-focused on only the negative things she was doing, and said she misses the old me.