Mom nonchalantly leans her hip against the counter and begins flicking through her phone. “We have tons of time.”
We really don’t, but I don’t bother arguing. I love Mom, but she’s my opposite in nearly every way. She resembles a blonde, blue-eyed shield-maiden straight from the set of Vikings, while I’m Asian, vertically challenged, with dark hair and eyes “the color of the abyss” （a deranged and misguided compliment from my ex-boyfriend）。
Unlike me, Mom is never in a rush until the eleventh hour and is forever forgetting important things, like a bra, for instance. She’s always been this way, even before Dad left. But having single motherhood thrust upon her only worsened her tardiness. At nine years old, I taped a color-coded extracurricular schedule on the refrigerator so she’d stop forgetting to pick me up from swimming lessons. Over the years, making lists and schedules has become my version of meditation. It calms my nerves when things start to feel out of control.
Steaming mug in hand, Mom peeps at my screen over my shoulder, still in no rush. “How’s the PowerPoint coming along? You changed the background again, I see.”
“Aesthetic is important,” I explain nobly.
“You don’t think seventeen slides is overkill?”
“Hey, I started at twenty-five. This is the lean version.” Magic is in the details, after all. Admittedly, I just made that quote up, but I’m sure some wise creative said it at some time in history.
She plops into the seat across from me with a sympathetic, yet puzzled frown. “I can’t believe you skipped out on Tony Freeman’s big bash.”
“Mom, you’re the only parent in history who’s disappointed her underage daughter didn’t get wasted at the biggest party of the year.” In fact, Mom actively encourages partying, which she never did at my age. Her parents （my grandparents） were relentlessly strict. So now she tries to live vicariously through me. “Kassie said there were college kids there,” I add.
“Last I checked, you’re going to be in college in”—she pauses to consult her imaginary wristwatch—“three months.”
“Exactly. And I can’t close the book on high school until I’ve planned the perfect prom.” Prom is one of the last remaining “to-dos” on my high school bucket list. I won’t find peace until it’s crossed off.
“Right. The checklist,” she drones, sliding down in her chair, long legs extended. She thinks it’s ridiculous to pin the success of my high school career on a checklist I made when I was thirteen. Maybe it is. But there is no better feeling than striking out each milestone, one by one.
I move to the sink to rinse my bowl, hopeful she’ll get the hint and get dressed.
Instead, she stretches her arms above her head and yawns. “I just hope you’re prioritizing fun. You drove yourself into the ground with SAT prep and college applications. Don’t you want to enjoy life? Live a little instead of stressing about things you can’t control?” She says it like it’s an easy choice not to stress. Like I can just opt out on a whim.
“No,” I say over the clink of dishes and the burble of water from the faucet. “I much prefer obsessing over everything that could go horribly wrong. Besides, catching grammatical errors in PowerPoints is an underrated thrill.”
She chuckles. “My little adrenaline junkie. Seriously, though. Don’t be in such a rush to barrel into adulthood.”
“Why not? You get to do whatever you want. Eat whatever you want. You can even buy a pet,” I point out, blinking away the memory of Mom forgetting to feed my goldfish while I was at summer camp. RIP Herbert.
“Hate to break it to you, but adulthood is just a never-ending cycle of chores, obligations, googling how to fix stuff, and spending money on things you hate. Like sponges and dish detergent.” She gestures vaguely to the sink behind me.
Maybe for you. I don’t say that out loud, though.
“Hey, that stainless steel sponge has done wonders for us. It was a worthwhile investment.”
My statement garners a derisive headshake. “My point is, I spend half the time pretending to know what I’m doing, and the other half ignoring all my problems and hoping they’ll disappear. Spoiler alert: they do not. And don’t even get me started on your body. One minute you’re throwing down chips by the bag, and the next you’re stirring Metamucil into your water and using a heating pad on your back.” She pretends to crack her back for dramatic effect.