No matter what you do, who you date or what questionable dinner decisions you make (yes, garlic shrimp at 1 a.m. was bold), there’s one common denominator through it all: you, Sugar.
So while you absolutely should take advice with a grain of salt – or, if you’re me, a margarita rim of it – you should also maybe occasionally consider that some of that advice isn’t total trash.
In my case, it’s the advice of my mother (a.k.a. Mommabear, CEO of being right) that now loops in my head like a cursed playlist. Especially now that we’re best friends – which only happened after I moved out, paid my own rent, did my own laundry and finally learned to survive the soul-crushing silence of being on hold with Rogers. Somewhere between the fourth disconnect and the seventh agent named “John,” I realized I could actually do this. I could do hard things. Even this.
Over the past 12+ years of solo adulthood (featuring my dog, who is an expense and a delight and possibly a tax write-off, I haven’t checked), I’ve learned that 99.9% of the time, Mommabear was right. Did I take her advice? No. But I ignored it with confidence – and honestly, that counts for something, right?
But last night? Last night it hit different.
I had to get blood out of a bra. (Relax, nothing dark – just a window vs. tricep situation. I will explain in another Good Article. I pinky-promise.) The blood had dried just enough to be annoying and I suddenly remembered my mom’s voice, calm and confident:
“Cold water first. Then soap with warm water. That’s how you get blood out.”
So I did exactly that, probably with a tiny internal eye-roll. And guess what?
It worked. Perfectly. Like magic. Or logic and whatnot.
And there I stood, holding a clean bra and a clean arm, suddenly spiralling into every other piece of advice I’d ignored for the last decade and a half. Because apparently, once your mom is right about laundry, she’s also right about everything else?
And there it was: every Mommabear-ism I’d brushed off over the years, now looping in my head—clearer, wiser, and a little too late:
- Stand up straight (because a hunchback of emotional baggage is enough, honey).
- Don’t wear a bra (ha!) through puberty (still unclear on the science but this and gravity became friends).
- Wear the orthopaedic boots, it’s temporary pain for permanent symmetry.
- Maybe don’t drink like the world’s ending. (It wasn’t. But my self-worth almost did.)
- Be aware of your surroundings. Especially when you’re alone. And tipsy.
- Say no. And don’t explain. “No” is a full sentence. Period.
- Confidence: fake it, build it, wear it like my perfumes and don’t let anyone convince you you’re too much – because trust me, they are the ones who will never be enough.
There were more. There always are. And while this isn’t some melodramatic cry to “always listen to your mother,” it is a casual nudge to maybe just… revisit some of the wisdom you once rolled your eyes at.
Because if she was right about blood, maybe she was also right about boundaries. And boys. And bras.
Fine. Whatever. Cool, cool cool.
Let’s just say this: If you ever find yourself bleeding – emotionally or otherwise – cold water first. Then soap. Then maybe a call to your mom.
You’d be surprised what stains still come the fuck out.
For more mildly unhinged, wildly relatable survival guides: welcome to Brunches & Breakdowns, part of Good Articles from North Let Go.
Snark, spills and sentimentality – all served cold.
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