Not A Pretty Attitude

(My mother has to have quite a serious emergency operation, and my dad, two brothers, my sister, and I are waiting anxiously for her to come round from her anaesthetic. She is still a little woozy from the drugs. Also, I should point out that my name ends in the letters ‘son,’ I’m 6’3” with a rather large beard and covered in tattoos.)

Me: “Hey, mum, how’re you feeling?”

Mum: “[My Name]. [MY NAME]! [MYYYY NAAAAAME]!”

Me: “Yeah, mum, it’s me. We’re all here.”

(She starts pinching my cheeks and making cooing noises like you would at a baby.)

Mum: “Why did we call you [My Name]-son? You’re not my son. You’re too pretty to be my son. You’re my daughter. My faaaaaavourite daughter. Always so good to her mummy. Not like your brothers. They didn’t even come to see me.”

(My sister is now visibly offended, whilst my dad and brothers are trying not to laugh.)

Sister: “Mum, I’m sitting RIGHT here. Could you BE any more offensive?!”

Dad: “Maybe that attitude right there is why you’re not her favourite.”