An Entire Baby Shower Food Spread

and why I need my mom

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I am twenty-five years old, and I’m still scared to death when my name comes out of my mom’s mouth in that whip-crack tone she only uses when I’m in trouble.

“Juli,” she’ll say in that specific tone, and whether that word ends in an exclamation point, a question mark, or both, I find myself jumping to attention.

We were at a baseball game a couple weeks ago, and the family behind us of four grandparents, six grown kids, six grandkids, and a couple aunts and uncles screamed the whole time. Not a shout of excitement or of “Hey, batter, batter, swing,” but a true, piercing scream. Finally, long after we had grown sick of them, one of the moms got sick of her own family’s noise and shouted her kids names. This had a minimal dampening effect on the screaming. But, as an experiment, my mom then shouted out my own name, and I almost jumped out of my seat.

She laughed, almost maniacally, and so did I. “I still got it,” she said.

I’m twenty-five years old, and I’m still very happy my mom only lives a five minute drive away.