How To Be A Mean Mother

I'm sure every child has accused their mother of being mean at one time or another. Mine did; up until reading this article in the Boston Globe yesterday morning. We had just come back from our weekly walk in the woods with our four-footed friend and her master. The paper was on the table. The headline glaring. One of the girls said, "That is a mean mom." Quickly my mind recalled the poem I keep in the kitchen -- just in case one of them should forget that I'm a mean mom. It's by author unknown. I'll share it here.

How to Be A Mean Mother

A mean mother never allows candy or sweets
to take the place of a well-balanced meal.
A mean mother insists on knowing where
her children are at all times, who their friends
are, and what they do. A mean mother breaks
the Child Labor Law by making her children
work--washing dishes, making beds, learning to
cook, and doing other cruel and unpleasant chores.
A mean mother makes life miserable for her
offspring by insisting that they always tell the
truth. A mean mother produces teenagers who
are wiser and more sensible. A mean mother can
smile with secret delight and pride
when she hears her own grandchildren call their parents mean.
What the world needs now are more Mean Mothers...

I guess we could tack onto the bottom a final line, that would go something like... A mean mom makes sure her child gets their chemotherapy.

The last night our oldest was invited to a cookout. I was out. Her call came in on my cell.
"What does you father say."
"He says it's okay."
I hesitated. "Are the parents home?"
"I don't know, but I'm going with these two respectable students." One is our neighbor.
A friend, overhearing my conversation feed me the advice she had fed her daughter when she was younger-- Don't drink the punch. Don't drink a beverage unless you open it yourself. Get a fresh glass if you put your's down and lose track of it -- even for a microsecond. I tacked on -- If there is any alcohol, drugs or sex going on you call me right away.
Promises were made. Her word was given.

Still I was uncomfortable. I drove home. She had already left. I headed over. I called her cell.
"Are the parents there?"
A pause. "Are your parents here?" Another pause. "It's my paranoid mom..." as if she had any other kind, like the lax mom, the sweet mom, the uncaring mom.
"No Mom, the parents aren't home."
"Be out front. I'm on my way to check this out."
"No, Mom," was her plea.
"Yes," was my answer. "I am your mother."

It was dark. If she hadn't been out front with a friend, I never would have been able to tell which house was which. I swerved to the side of the road, and got out.

"How many people? What are you drinking? What are you eating? What time is this over?"

At first she was pissed. I reminded her that I am the Mom. I'm here because I care. Her mood tempered. I got my answers. Her friend also gave me answers; solid answers from both. I kissed her. Told her I loved her. Reminded her to call if anything should go down.
And as I drove off, leaving her at her first high school party, I wondered if she were complaining to her friends about her mean mom. I don't mind. I care.