That's not my mother. That's Tina Fey. But my Mumma could be Tina Fey if she wanted to. She doesn't though, she doesn't even know who Tina Fey is.
And yes, even though I'm approaching the (not so) big Two Oh, I still call my mother, Mumma...
and intend to keep on doing it.
We argue a lot. But the rest of the time I appreciate that she did a fairly amazing job raising me.
She tells this story about me as a toddler...
She says that after my dad died, whenever I was tantruming, I'd shout at her and run away. Only to realise that there was no one else to run to, and turn around to come straight back for a cuddle.
I think that pretty much sums up our relationship.
I've got further to run now, but I'll always come full circle.
I love my Mumma...
I love... that when my playmate's snooty mother snootily said "Ah-re you ah-ware that there is a trah-il of socks down your gah-rden pah-th?", my mother said
"Oh, would you look at that! And look, there's a shirt under the trampoline...really must get the hang of that washing-line-thing"
...and called her an uptight cow after they'd gone.
I love that she swings between a vegan-sugarfree-saltless-non-processed-organic lifestyle, and oh-theres-a-pizza-in-the-freezer-defrost-it-would-you?
I love that she's a terrible cook and doesn't care.
I love that she can match me quote for quote, watching "The Princess Bride".
"Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya..."
I love that she took us to hippy-dippy, three day, bring-your-own-falling-to-pieces-tent festivals. The kind that have vegan pancake stalls, and "learn to play the spoons" workshops, and people who sit around drawing other people's auras.
I love that she filled my life with strong, independent female role models.
I love that she was incredibly strict about my television viewing, loosened up for my brother, and had entirely given up by the time my sister came along. And is now addicted to Top Model...and references Tyra in conversation.
I love that when I took her to an insanely loud, offbeat Wellington cafe for lunch, she loved it. And wanted to go back for dinner.
I love that she never thought to screen what I was reading... and only realised that I had moved on from Enid Blyton, and was reading all of her library books when I handed one back to her, saying gravely "I don't think you should read this one, it has Very Rude bits".
I love that the one and only time it snowed close to my hometown she piled us into the car and drove for over an hour, so we could see it. And stood at the top of the hill shouting "You're okay baby!" as I plummeted to my death, screaming, clinging onto a body board..
And apologised after I emerged, slightly winded, clutching the broken board...
"Oh honey, I just didn't see that ledge"
I love that we have screaming, loud, terrifying for all those around us, fights. Because even though we're angry, it's good, honest anger. It's unafraid, "because I know you'll still love me tomorrow, no matter what I do", anger.
I love that our house was always teeming with unusual pets...chickens, frogs, lambs, goats, lizards, crabs...as well as the expected bunnies and guinea pigs, cats and dogs.
I love that she's always respected me enough to allow me a voice. And encouraged me to use it, to be opinionated.
I love that even though other parents would rent movies and take us bowling, my friends always wanted to come to my house. Possibly because we were allowed to play with matches.
I love that she "borrows" all of my jewellery. And asks my opinion of her clothing choices.
I love that she took care of me when I first got sick. And never stopped researching treatments after I was finally diagnosed (with CFS, I should add -nothing scary)
I love that I grew up knowing that it was okay to fight for anything I believed in. That it was okay to challenge conventions. And I loved watching her do it daily.
I love you Mumma, but god forbid you ever find this blog. You will be receiving this in email form.