Today is my mom’s birthday. Let’s see, that makes her 55 + 22 carry the two = getting up there. Mom was an innovator—her punishments fit the crime. I once ate a booger and she washed my mouth out with soap. This was a bar of Ivory that had been sitting on the bathroom sink for weeks and used by everyone in my family after wiping their butts. I never ate a booger again.
She once told me that she liked to use the wooden spoon for spankings because it stung real good without leaving a mark. Most muggings are not thought out so well.
She forced me to drink Metamucil and Phillips Milk of Magnesia if my bowels weren’t moving fast enough for her satisfaction. Where parents now have to keep their kids in sight at all times, Mom sent us out to play in the sunshine, then locked the door.
She’s always been my staunchest supporter, which means that she’s reading this right now, so we just won’t mention the hootchie pictures of her wearing (gasp) Capri pants and a tight sweater. We just don’t like to think of our mothers that way. Come to think of it, my kids know all about me, my husband’s 40th birthday, and the French maid’s costume. At least there were no poodles involved.
My mom lives in Arizona, which is a long haul from New York—totally irrelevant, since I live in South Carolina, home of spiders the size of miniature schnauzers. It’s not the first place I’ve lived where the spiders could beat you with a stick if they felt so inclined. Despite Mom’s arachnophobia, she’s come to visit me everywhere I’ve lived. That’s love!
So I’d just like to say, thank you to my mom for all the things she’s taught me, her unfailing support, and her love. And yes, Mom, I am too old to spank.