Today is my mum's birthday. In honor of such a tremendous event, I'd like to pay tribute to her by relating an embarrassing story about her, and I do so with love.
One fall evening last year, the Kennards were lounging about the living room trying to decide where to go for dinner. Of course, any decision requires a long, drawn-out discussion with much bandying about (it's the Kennard way, you see), so we were lounging for quite a while. In the midst of the lounging, my brother mentioned that he had been amazed to text the word "Rwanda" successfully with his phone in predictive mode. Determined to prove or disprove his claim, we each pulled out our phones and tried it. It worked. Then, still with no dinner-plan conclusion in sight, my siblings and I decided to each text "Rwanda" to another family member. I sent the message to my dear mum, knowing that a) she hadn't been paying much attention to our discussion, and b) she never turns her phone on. We enjoyed our thirty seconds of fun, finally reached a satisfying conclusion, and left for dinner.
Our story now jumps forward five or six days. In the darkest hours of the night, I was enjoying a peaceful slumber. My door swung suddenly open and I was rudely awakened by the beam of the hall light shining directly into my sleepy face. My mum stood in the doorway in her robe and slippers, hunched with fatigue and hair awry. I'm sure I said something quite intelligent, such as, "Well, Mother, whatever could the matter be that you would so rudely waken me," but I fear only a muffled "Whuh?" came to be articulated. She whispered, "Just making sure you're okay. Go back to sleep," and closed the door. I, being most bewildered, but grateful to return to my comatose state, quickly forgot the matter and fell promptly asleep.
The event remained mostly forgotten the next day, until my brother came to pick me up after work and I learned the full tale of what had transpired in the night. Mum had been awoken by the sound of the home phone ringing strangely. She picked it up, and heard nothing--not even a dialtone. She hung up, then tried again. Still, nothing. Dad was away on business, and Mum's first thought was of the urban legend, "The Babysitter," and that someone had cut the phone lines (overactive imaginationing is also the Kennard way, in addition to bandying about). She panicked when she heard movement downstairs, but managed to calm herself down enough to realize it was probably my older sister getting up to use the bathroom (that's the Julie way). She gathered her courage and went down to see if Julie, if indeed it was Julie, knew what was wrong with the phones. Julie, showing great presence of mind at such an hour, remembered that the phone company had recently informed us they'd be doing maintenance and we'd therefore be out of service for a few hours. Accepting this answer, yet still slightly frazzled, Mum trudged back upstairs to bed. She decided that since the phone was out, she'd better pull out her cell phone to have at the ready, should the need arise. She turned the phone on, then received quite a startle when the phone immediately--and loudly--beeped, informing her of a text message from her darling daughter, me. "But why on earth would my darling daughter send me a text at such an ungodly hour?" Mum wondered. Her weary befuddlement was amplified when she saw the content of the message: a single word, "Rwanda." Her motherly and imaginative instincts now in full swing, she concluded that someone had, indeed, broken into the home, was in my room about to end my young, promising life, and that my only opportunity to cry for help was to reach for my phone and beg my mum to save me, only I just had time for one word, and the one word that most exemplified my distress was "RWANDA!!!!!!" Mum, as any warm-blooded mother would, sprang from her room and burst into mine, ready to bare-handedly beat away the nefarious foe who would seek to end such an innocent life. Imagine her joy, and perhaps her feeling of underappreciation, when her efforts were met with a gruff "whuh," and a sleepy glare. Satisfied that her cubs were safe, my mama bear trudged back to bed and the restful sleep of the victor.
I tell this story because, well, we think it's funny (it's the Kennard way) and therefore make some reference to it at least once a week. Does Mum protest? Nay! She laughs along with us. Indeed, I believe it was my mum who first coined the phrase "good sport" and therefore should be earning handsome copyright profits. This is truly an example to be emulated.
In all seriousness, I love how my mom doesn't take herself so seriously. Seriously. This is something I still need to work on (seriously. Jana, if I have to hear the bulimic bohemian story one more time...).
