“I ain’t thinking about you, girl.”

I heard that refrain over and over throughout my childhood.  My mom would say that when, ostensibly, she wasn’t thinking about me.  I heard it all the time.

When she sat at her sewing machine strategically placed by a window so she could see her children coming and going as they played outside…

When she went to the grocery store where she always made sure to purchase Cheerios and apples, my two favorite foods…

When she drove me to dance class…

When she helped me with my math homework, even though I didn’t think that she, as a lifelong high school math teacher, knew what she was talking about…

I finally figured it out when she was planning my prom dress that she really was thinking about me.  She spliced together no less than three patterns, purchased yards of fabric, procured appliqués I didn’t even know I wanted, sized and fitted me endlessly, and at every stage told me she wasn’t thinking about me.  I called her on it, but she denied thinking about me.

But we both knew better.