Happy Mother’s Day

So, if you’re listening Great Grandpa, sorry about the part about where I said you ate your entire supply of food in 15 minutes, and for making fun of your being nearsighted. I understand that being nearsighted is an affliction, and not to be taken lightly, especially when walking in crowded hallways. I promise I will never again use the journey of the Mayflower to selfishly serve my own comic needs … unless the subject of shoe buckles comes up.

As I was pondering my previous column, it occurred to me that Mother’s Day was coming, and that this might be a good time to offer similar apologies to my mom for my many transgressions over the years. Sadly, I don’t have to make these up. They all really happened.

Mom, I’m sorry for the time Jimmy and I were playing with matches and burned up the field at the end of the street (and thankfully, that’s all), and when you asked how it started I told you that a hippie threw a cigarette at us. There was no hippie, Mom. It was us. We started the fire. Children, if you’re reading this, as all children who want to go to heaven do, then don’t ever, ever play with matches. Or hippies.

Then there was the time my sister Cathy made a pencil drawing of me. Mom was so pleased with the drawing that she ran right off to K-Mart to buy a frame. Meanwhile, I decided that the portrait would look much better with a bit of color, so I sat down with my crayons and did my very best to impress Mom with my highly attuned first-grade artistic skills. When she got home, Mom looked as if a meteorite had crashed through the roof and landed on her foot.

And there were the scares:

I’m sorry for the time I ate half the bottle of baby aspirin. I just thought it was a nice afternoon snack.

Then there was the time I went missing for several hours. It was the middle of the night. I was suddenly overcome with insecurity and sought sanctuary inside my bedroom closet. I closed the door, laid down, and fell fast asleep. I would probably have been pictured on a milk carton by that afternoon if I hadn’t suddenly realized that I was missing "Underdog."

Mom, I’m sorry for worrying you and Dad when Jody and I ran away from home. Although I was only four, I remember feeling as if I needed to get out on my own for a while. Jody, the girl next door, had a street-smart way that made her seem older than her three years. Together we shook the dirt from Casper, Wyo. off our feet and went off to see the world. On that memorable morning, she and I took a ride on the wind; we hit the road. By mid-afternoon we had walked nearly a block. Then her dad drove up and took us home. That’s okay; I had seen enough of the real world and its ways. I was a Charlie Brown blanket and Cocoa Puffs kind of guy; there was no escaping it. Later that day, Jody dumped me for a five-year-old with a Big Wheel.

Mom, I’m sorry for that time I ate most of the left over oatmeal cake you had made, leaving you a piece so small you could have eaten it with a tweezers. If the cake hadn’t tasted so good, you might have had a larger piece. So it was partially your fault.

I’m sorry for the time, as a toddler, I managed to lock the screen door when everyone was in the front yard. Although I don’t remember it, I’ve often been reminded of the day I stood in my birthday suit laughing maniacally as Dad tried every means of communication he knew to get me to "push up that little button."

And then there was the time I wandered off and got lost in K-Mart. Today’s kids run right to the video game display. Back then, you sought out the Slinky or Mr. Potato Head section (you provided your own potato – remember?). At some point, Mom and I both turned around and saw that the other wasn’t there. I began racing around the aisles, panicked and scared. I might as well have been wandering lost among the hills of outer Mongolia, or stranded on the moon.