Sam Fowler

April 1st

Essay #2

My Mom is Freaking Nuts

The Queen of the crazy people is a 5’4” blonde woman named Becky Fowler. No,

seriously. She has a curse. Crazy people are drawn to her, and strangers feel the need to tell her

their life stories on a daily basis.​ ​Becky Fowler is my mother, and for a short person, she has a

lot of personality. My mother is the woman who would trample your four year old at Disney

World to get to Mickey Mouse first, and I guarantee she loves that Mouse more than any child

does. She has a Mickey Mouse dressed as a cop tattooed on her back because she’s a police

officer and she loves Mickey Mouse. I think that speaks for itself. The police department she

works for has even given her a nickname: the pitbull. She’s the person who would get violently

murdered if she ever went to Comic-con. We went to the Harry Potter Wizarding World in

Orlando one year, and I thought it was amazing. My mother was the one thinking it was weird

and funny that grown men were dressed in hundred dollar robes and waving around wands. She

turned to me and said, “I don’t get it. Don’t these people understand it’s just a book?” It took a

lot of my willpower not to stab her myself at that statement, and to instead explain that you can’t

say those things when you’re surrounded by members of a fandom. My mother may be crazy, but

she’s not the type of crazy a fangirl is.

Becky Fowler is the name that puts fear into every worker in the North Branford Public

School System, because they know what happens when you piss off the pitbull. She’s the person

who was ready to throw down in the parking lot with my brother’s seventh grade English
teacher. Granted, the teacher challenged her first. She can go from being an innocent lady

walking into the mall with her family to lunging like a freaking spider monkey and tackling a

shoplifter that was trying to escape. That’s one image I’m never going to forget. We were just

walking into the mall and the shoplifter was running out, security chasing after him. Then my

mom, spider monkey style, jumped on him and my parents took him down. Going to the mall

with her is always an interesting experience. One time, fresh off several hours overtime, we went

to the mall. My mom, the severely sleep deprived woman, looked like a drunk person. Stumbling

down the hallway of the mall, she was half singing, “To the left, to the left, to the right, to the

right, now something something walk the dog.” There are so many tired brained ramblings of my

mother that we’ve given them a name. Mominisms. A mominism is a phrase so obviously stupid

that you have to acknowledge it, even if you know what she meant. We have a kept list of most

of them, and every now and then, we’ll start listing them to press her buttons, because she knows

we’re never letting her live them down. For example, “You can wear that shirt as a shirt.” “I

don’t know which team won, but one of them did.” “Do you think they dug those dinosaurs up at

a dig site?” That last one was dumb enough that a bird committed suicide on our car a minute

later. My mother has enough quirks and crazy antics that my family wants me to write a book on

her, and we joke she should donate her body to science after she dies. Becky Fowler is the

woman who never stops, and never thinks of herself. She will work all night as a cop, stumble

home, get two hours of sleep if she’s lucky, and then take me to school before returning home to

do about a hundred chores. I was convinced for a long time that she secretly possessed a time

turner because I saw no other way she could possibly be getting this much work done in one day.
She is the woman who will juggle everything, and put up with everyone else’s bullshit drama on

top of it.

Once, we were on a road trip, just driving through Missouri, trying to get to Branson. But

after so many hours in the car, we were all getting a little antsy. We needed a break, and then my

mom spotted a sign that read Santa Claus- 100 miles. It was August, so we had no clue why

Santa Claus would be anywhere near us. Now normally, my mother is a Grinch when it comes to

Christmas, but for some unknown reason, she was determined to go see Santa Claus. Shortly

after deciding to find Santa, we saw a billboard advertising a monastery you could go visit. We

have a very religious aunt, and we all hate her because she’s annoying and self centered. She

hates us too, so we decided to go and find the monastery; maybe buy her something from the gift

shop just to stick it to her. The detour did not go as planned. We ended up wandering the

backroads of Missouri for an hour, with no sign of the monastery or Santa Claus. We found a

Perdue Chicken Farm, but no monastery. Then we spotted a giant church and assumed that must

be it; we drove in, looking for the entrance. We discovered pretty quickly this was not the

monastery you were supposed to visit. This was a private one that we had broken into

accidentally. By the time we left, my brother and I were howling with laughter in the backseat as

my mother glared at us all and said, “Fuck you, take me to Santa.” We eventually found out that

Santa Claus was a town in Indiana dedicated to Christmas, and my mother forced us to take

pictures in front of disturbing Santa statues that were located all around the town. Because

nothing screams family vacation like taking pictures in front of a pedophilic looking Santa

statue. Becky Fowler is the woman who will never pass up an opportunity to embarrass her

children, especially when she does that by breaking out dancing in moments where no one told
her to dance. She is crazy, and completely unpredictable in her words and actions, but that’s

what I like about her. She keeps things interesting, and even though some days she will get on

your nerves, she’s still a person to look up to. Becky Fowler never stops, and could accomplish

more tasks in an hour then most people could in a whole day. She’s a person that keeps you

guessing, and I look forward to seeing what the Queen of the crazy people will do next.