Apologies to My Mother

Moms put up with a lot. And I'm not saying that because I am one. I'm saying that because I have one. Sometimes, it's only in retrospect that we see what little buggers we were growing up. Every once in a while, when I am unselfish enough to let my kids get what THEY want instead of me getting what I want, I am reminded that my mother went through this also.

Although far more often than I do.

So I'm starting a list. A list of things I got mad at my mom for, when it turned out she was right.

A list of things she warned me about, but I did anyway.

A list of things she didn't get to do or have so I could do or have what I wanted.

So here goes.

#1 — Cleaning for the cleaners.

 

Mom, you were right. You do have to clean the house before the cleaners come. How many times did I stomp my foot, roll my eyes, and otherwise try to make you feel like a complete, blithering idiot for thinking that we needed to clean up before the cleaners came.

Dear Lord: Can I please have the money back that I have wasted over the years by having cleaners come when the house looked like a tornado went through it?

#2 — No Sex Please, We're British

That is in italics because it is the real name of a real play. A really bad play as I do recall. But my dear, suffering mother (and father) passed up seeing Amadeus on stage while on a trip to London because my teenaged brother and I didn't want to go. We bitched and moaned until they gave in and went to see what we wanted to see.

About a year later my mother dragged me, kicking and screaming, to see Amadeus the movie. I think the phrase, "I'll be damned if..." was part of that very short conversation.

After the movie, I looked at my mom and said, "That movie was awesome! I loved it! Thanks for insisting I go!" The look of total, unrelenting fury on her face haunts me to this day.

#3 — Oh, Horrors!

On that very same trip, my mother passed up something wonderful, I'm sure, to take me to Madam Tussaud's House of Horrors and Wax Museum in London. The fact that they ever took me anywhere other than McDonald's after that trip is truly one of the wonders of the universe.

However, I do still have the picture of my head superimposed on a stake next to a guillotine with the caption, "I Lost My Head at Madame Tussaud's!" My parents even framed it for me.

#4 — 17 Is Too Old

When I was in 8th grade (and not yet 13 years old), a senior asked me to the Homecoming Dance. I went with him, not because I liked him. I went because a freaking senior (I hardly knew) asked me to Homecoming, and I wanted to go dammit!  

[Insert petulant foot stomping here.]

My Mom said I would regret it.

She said it would be awkward.

She said I wouldn't have a good time.

Fast forward to the night of the dance. I'm slow dancing, but in my head I'm thinking up excuses so I could get the heck out of Dodge. I faked a really early curfew and walked in the door a mere hour and a half after I left. 

When I walked past my parents' bedroom, I just said, "Not a word. Not a single word." And I went to bed.

She smirked a little. I felt it.

#5: Take two aspirin and call me in the morning.

Before going to bed, I should have taken something for the hangover you warned me I would have after the DTD Christmas Party my first year in college.

Yes, I had a mom who really was cool enough to know that I was going to drink cheap champagne and loved me enough to want me to not want to die afterwards.

#6: Get On With It

My Mom has been telling me for years that I should write more. That I've been wanting to write a book or a newspaper column since I was little, so why the heck haven't I done it yet? I'm 43 years old, for goodness' sake.  She says my writing reminds her of Erma Bombeck — one of my favorite authors when I was growing up — and when I'm feeling cocky and way too self-confident, I kind of agree.

For Christmas this year, she hunted down a copy of Erma Bombeck's Families — The Ties That Bind ... and Gag. An inscribed copy. The inscription says:

To Mary, You are on every page. Love, Erma Bombeck

Now, Erma Bombeck died in 1996. Yet my mother tracked down a copy that she had inscribed to some Mary she met at some point. Then she added a message of her own:

Erma and I agree: Get on with it. 

Thanks Mom.

For the kick in the pants and more, I owe you.

DDD