Consider This

By LC Van Savage

Mother’s Day has just passed, so while I have your attention---I do, right??—I’d like to mention a few new mother-related rules suggested for our sons.

Dearest Boys: OK, here’s the deal. I’m getting on in years, ---you don’t have to instantly agree --- and I’d like to lay down a few rules I know you’ve always known but ones you’ve steadfastly refused to obey. Since I’m in the sunset of my motherhood, I respectfully ask you to honor them for now and forever, OK? And I mean business, boys. This time I’m not kidding. It’s getting closer to will time, and if you’ve got your eye on anything special in the house, you can kiss it goodbye if you break any of these rules ever again. I know Goodwill’s 800 number by heart. This new regime commences immediately.

First. Do not ever, ever again hold up four fingers behind my back when in your opinion I’ve repeated the same story for the fourth time that day. Maybe I have and maybe I haven’t, maybe I have and maybe I haven’t, and I know I haven’t, and I know I haven’t, but when are you going to get it that mothers really do have eyes in the backs of their heads? Thought that was a silly story from your childhood, right? Wrong. Every time you hold up those four, or seven fingers behind me, I can see you!!

Oh, and speaking of eyes, including those glaring at you through my chignon, do not ever roll your eyes again when I’m not looking. Eyeball rolling is a cultural expression of bored exasperation and is highly offensive to the rollee. That’d be me. If I choose to warn you about the dangers of whatever on earth I choose to, and that includes your picking up those well-known and possibly fatal parasites from public johns, then be respectful, listen to me and use those paper toilet seat covers I’ve mentioned, OK? That’s what they’re there for, dear sons. So watch that eyeball rolling. It really, really ticks me off.

And one more eyeball warning; don’t lie to me about anything. I can tell, you know. How? Just by looking into your eyes. Forget your guilt-ridden body language; all I have to do is stare into your eyeballs and I know everything. You think I believed all your teen-age fictions? Not hardly. And by the way, fumes from a pal’s spilled bottle of vodka can not make anyone drunk. Thought I believed that one, didn’t you?

Next rule. Do not ever again in your lifetimes say to me; "But Ma, don’t you remember? We talked at length about that last week and we emailed back and forth too. You do remember, right?" OK boys, say this over and over to yourselves; if she remembered it, she wouldn’t be asking about it.. Tell me what part of that you don’t get and I’ll repeat it. Seven times.

Oh, and the sighing. You guys have brought the simple sigh, which should be reserved for lovers or people viewing milk chocolate, to a high art form. You’re all grown men now. You’re losing your hair and what’s left is greying, so you’re way too old to sigh when I make a request of you. I heard that same loud sigh for years when I used to ask you to clean your rooms, take out the garbage, turn down the music, keep your gross sneakers out of the middle of the room, walk the dog, put your dishes into the dishwasher, observe the golden rule, get a job, study hard, behave honorably, and to please, please marry young.

So there you have it. I have a whole lot more rules for you, my darling boys, but my column does have a word limit, so I’ll save the rest for next Mother’s Day. Luvluv, Mom (I heard that!)