Tits up, Mother!

You might often be tempted to ask the question: when is it okay, kosher if you will, to talk about tits with your mother – or more specifically for her to push her tits up.

Picture a 74-year-old woman who never leaves the house without her lipstick on and a general rub of colour on her cheeks, whose hair has been many colours but not yet blue.

The answer might surprise or shock you. It certainly shocked me since I was the one asking the question and I didn’t get the expected shot upside the head. Well, she was too far away and her knee has been acting up lately so there’s that. That, and she was too busy laughing.

My family is an anomaly, with generations upon generations either having babies later in life or having an “oops” baby 16 years after the first. My brother and I were the later in life babies, though I continually call my bro the “mailman’s child” since he’s got blond hair, blue eyes and longest goddamn eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a guy.

What does that mean besides a lot of tired mothers and kids frustrated with the number of walkers and wheelchairs in the living room? It means having a 40-year difference between sets of cousins. And it means that your Uncle Jimmy (he’s actually a cousin but so old we call him Uncle) will talk about his morning routine of putting his teeth in and straightening out his back before kissing your aunt or how life was during World War II. It also means that your less-than-colourful mother (save the lipstick she insists should never be missed) will be a little more easy-going with the off-colour humour than if she was shushing you after you ask if she fancies a little spotted dick. But that’s only IF Uncle Jimmy is around. I swear he’s an elixir. Either that or he bathes in the stuff.

And so it went this past weekend where the cousins got together to remember Uncle Billy and his positive outlook, his perfectly sliced turkey and stuffing and the times he tried on his wife’s bathing suit, complete with grapefruits for the bits he couldn’t fill. There’s proof in pictures and we saw them too.

After delivering eulogies and tributes, remembering all of the good times we shared together, it was time for a few pictures of the cousins. The younger generation first – thankfully I was included in that (a debate since I’m in between an intergenerational member) – and then the oldies.

I don’t know what possessed me – perhaps after being regaled with stories of how vulgar and amazing my family can be – but as my aunt, uncle, father and mother were standing, posing with prim and proper smiles on their face, I opted for the less traditional call… “Okay, everyone! Make this count! Tits up, ass out.” Jesus Christ Margaret choked on her wine. My uncle was buckled over laughing and with tears in his eyes, and my dad and aunt bravely lifted their chest, pushed out their ass and grinned.

I think this may be the only time I will get away with saying “tits” to my mother. I can’t even fathom how she’d react if I called her “Hootie McBoob” or my moniker “Chesty LaRue.” Even better: her new name… Tits McGrath. I can’t wait until her memorial service. Really. There's going to be spotted dick for everyone!