Improper Poll: Under the Umbrella

A couple of days ago, LindaO’Connell at Write from the Heart wrote about bumbershoots, or umbrellas. This made me smile, and not just because of the fun word. Whenever I think of umbrellas, I think of my mother and the way she was always trying to foist one off onto me.

When I was younger, I loathed umbrellas. They were clunky, dorky things that only nerds carried. They were second only to the rubbers we used to have to wear to protect our shoes from getting wet. Whenever a boy would pick me up for a date and it was raining out, I would rush out the door as fast as possible thanks to absolute terror that my rather naïve mother might caution me to be sure and take rubbers. She never did, thank heavens, but she sometimes called after me to take an umbrella.

Even when I was an adult, my mother persisted in giving me umbrellas, often disguised as gifts. I thanked her and stashed them away—usually under my car seat. It was only after she died that I noticed the way they sometimes came rolling out from under my seat when it was raining, and this time, instead of feeling annoyed at those incessant umbrellas, I smiled.

When my daughter went to France, and later off to college, I presented her with an umbrella. I could tell by the look on her face that it would never get used, but as her mother, I felt an obligation to pass along the tradition, not unlike passing a torch.

A few years ago, I started actually using the umbrellas. I am not cool, and I no longer care. In fact, the rejection of coolness is at the heart of the matter on a literal level as well. It’s not that I care so much about looking like a drowned rat when I go someplace, but I hate being damp and cold.

Funny it’s only now that I really get the message: I will shield you. I’ve got you covered. These days, umbrellas make me smile.

How did your mother manage to humiliate you?