Mothers are the original extremists. Not all mothers. Not my own mother, for instance. I'm talking about the classic mother, the mother of vicious love, the terrible and awesome bear-like, lion-like mother. The archetypal, all powerful mother.
It is from such mothers that the young boy and girl first learn the meaning of terrorism, fear. It is from such as well that they learn manners and respect and the futility of lies.
I well remember one time when my stepson, Sasha, accidentally set fire to my desk chair when I was out in the yard taking a break from work. The poor, panicked boy came running outside, sounding the alert, and I went in to find flames leaping from the plushly cushioned chair and smoke billowing from the room.
At just this moment, his mother arrived home, and it soon became clear that the true terror lay not in the flaming chair but in his mother's retribution; for whilst I was busy at smothering the flames with wet bath towels and looking to determine a quick way for the chair and its trailing cloud of smoke to exit the house, Sasha's mother had backed the boy into a corner, wielding a BIC lighter while demanding to know if he knew that he could have burned the house down, and whether he thought it was funny to play with fire, and whether he thought she should light him on fire. "Would you like that, huh! You want me to set you on fire?"
"Noooo! I don't want to!" Sasha cried.
In the meantime, I am trying to lift the large, unwieldly, blackly smoldering chair and find a way to edge it out the door.
"Um, Louis," I said, "can you stop setting fire to the boy for a minute and help me get this chair outside?"
Another incident, years later, involved an accident with Sasha's brand new laptop. It was raining as he arrived at school one day, and as he ran from the bus to the schoolhouse door, he lost his footing and fell. On top of the laptop. A heartbreaking disaster for the boy to begin with, given his love of computers, the internet, online games and so on. In short, it was his life. And yet this tragedy was nothing compared to the fury of his mother, likely making the boy wish that computers had never been invented.
"I can't believe how careless you are! How clumsy! Do you have any idea what that laptop cost? No! Because you didn't buy it. I did! (Not strictly true, but I digress). Well, I'm not buying you another one, I'll tell you that--not until you can appreciate the value of money."
"I know, I know. I didn't ask--"
"I'll tell you what you're going to do. You're going to get a part time job after school and you're going to make every bit of that money back and buy the next laptop for yourself!"
And so the boy went to work, his first job. And the laptop incident faded. And behind the scenes negotiations quietly ensued between Sasha, his father, and his new boss toward the goal of procuring a new laptop. And soon the boy was equipped again, computer-wise, and had some pocket money to boot!
During the tenure of my second wife, there was an incident wherein my stepdaughter and her friend had taken my stepson, Preston, to the park with them. Well, they had not intended to do so, but had been told that they must, for the little tyke was bored at home. Well, it happened later that my their mother, Georgia, was passing by the park while on some sort of errand, and spied her son sitting all alone on a swing set whilst the daughter and her friend sunbathed in the grass some distance away, likely under the impression that some passing boys might notice them. Georgia parked the car, retrieved Preston from the swing, and drove him home, without a word of this to the girls, who blissfully continued to bath in the summer sunshine.
Bye-and-bye, a telephone call came into the house.
"Hi, Mom … Um … how are you? How are things at home?"
"Great. Why?"
"Oh, no reason. Do you … umm … do you have Preston there?"
"No, he's with you. You were watching him at the park, remember?"
Silence. Panic. A broken connection. A desperate search for Preston ensues, who, of course, is nowhere to be found. Not in the park, anyway. Within a half hour, the pale faced, tear streaked girls show up at the door.
And find Preston watching cartoons in the front room.
"Mom!!"
Outraged, wet faces contorted, hovering between extremes of fear, relief and anger, the girls march through the house to confront Mom.
"How could you! How could you do that to me!"
"I did something to do you? Hah, that's rich," Mom says. You were responsible for Preston in the park, were you not? Is that how you watch over your little brother? If I could come and take him, anyone could come and take him. Ever think of that? A molester, a pervert, a pedophile. Ever think of that?"
"Oh. My. God. I HATE you!" the daughter retorts.
Extreme, is it not? And, if nothing else, a lesson that a young girl will never, ever forget.
One other incident (among many). The same daughter, having survived into her later teen years, has adopted a bit of an attitude, as later teen girls are wont to do. She's having a tiff with her mother, and she's not about to back down this time. Words grow sharper, the air grows tense, as before a thunderclap, and then, suddenly, Whomp! upside the head.
Whomp.
"Nice, Mom. Do it again if you want."
Whomp.
And then, "Do you want me to do it again."
"No," the dazed girl answers. "That's enough."
Mothers are extreme. Mothers are always right. Mothers are not to be messed with.
Although my own mother was a gentle, quiet, angel of a woman, I think now, in my later years, that it might not have hurt me to be squashed now and then by a more decisive, less tolerant thumb. For one thing, I had no idea, growing up, that real women in the outside world could be frightening monsters. Or crazy. I had no frame of reference other than my mother's mild, nonconfrontational nature. I was, therefore, ill-prepared. Moreover, I enjoyed a sort of unchallenged kingship. King Richard, they called me. Which, again, did little to prepare me for the advent of other royal personages, such as queens and princesses and wicked witches. And wives.
It is from such mothers that the young boy and girl first learn the meaning of terrorism, fear. It is from such as well that they learn manners and respect and the futility of lies.
I well remember one time when my stepson, Sasha, accidentally set fire to my desk chair when I was out in the yard taking a break from work. The poor, panicked boy came running outside, sounding the alert, and I went in to find flames leaping from the plushly cushioned chair and smoke billowing from the room.
At just this moment, his mother arrived home, and it soon became clear that the true terror lay not in the flaming chair but in his mother's retribution; for whilst I was busy at smothering the flames with wet bath towels and looking to determine a quick way for the chair and its trailing cloud of smoke to exit the house, Sasha's mother had backed the boy into a corner, wielding a BIC lighter while demanding to know if he knew that he could have burned the house down, and whether he thought it was funny to play with fire, and whether he thought she should light him on fire. "Would you like that, huh! You want me to set you on fire?"
"Noooo! I don't want to!" Sasha cried.
In the meantime, I am trying to lift the large, unwieldly, blackly smoldering chair and find a way to edge it out the door.
"Um, Louis," I said, "can you stop setting fire to the boy for a minute and help me get this chair outside?"
Another incident, years later, involved an accident with Sasha's brand new laptop. It was raining as he arrived at school one day, and as he ran from the bus to the schoolhouse door, he lost his footing and fell. On top of the laptop. A heartbreaking disaster for the boy to begin with, given his love of computers, the internet, online games and so on. In short, it was his life. And yet this tragedy was nothing compared to the fury of his mother, likely making the boy wish that computers had never been invented.
"I can't believe how careless you are! How clumsy! Do you have any idea what that laptop cost? No! Because you didn't buy it. I did! (Not strictly true, but I digress). Well, I'm not buying you another one, I'll tell you that--not until you can appreciate the value of money."
"I know, I know. I didn't ask--"
"I'll tell you what you're going to do. You're going to get a part time job after school and you're going to make every bit of that money back and buy the next laptop for yourself!"
And so the boy went to work, his first job. And the laptop incident faded. And behind the scenes negotiations quietly ensued between Sasha, his father, and his new boss toward the goal of procuring a new laptop. And soon the boy was equipped again, computer-wise, and had some pocket money to boot!
During the tenure of my second wife, there was an incident wherein my stepdaughter and her friend had taken my stepson, Preston, to the park with them. Well, they had not intended to do so, but had been told that they must, for the little tyke was bored at home. Well, it happened later that my their mother, Georgia, was passing by the park while on some sort of errand, and spied her son sitting all alone on a swing set whilst the daughter and her friend sunbathed in the grass some distance away, likely under the impression that some passing boys might notice them. Georgia parked the car, retrieved Preston from the swing, and drove him home, without a word of this to the girls, who blissfully continued to bath in the summer sunshine.
Bye-and-bye, a telephone call came into the house.
"Hi, Mom … Um … how are you? How are things at home?"
"Great. Why?"
"Oh, no reason. Do you … umm … do you have Preston there?"
"No, he's with you. You were watching him at the park, remember?"
Silence. Panic. A broken connection. A desperate search for Preston ensues, who, of course, is nowhere to be found. Not in the park, anyway. Within a half hour, the pale faced, tear streaked girls show up at the door.
And find Preston watching cartoons in the front room.
"Mom!!"
Outraged, wet faces contorted, hovering between extremes of fear, relief and anger, the girls march through the house to confront Mom.
"How could you! How could you do that to me!"
"I did something to do you? Hah, that's rich," Mom says. You were responsible for Preston in the park, were you not? Is that how you watch over your little brother? If I could come and take him, anyone could come and take him. Ever think of that? A molester, a pervert, a pedophile. Ever think of that?"
"Oh. My. God. I HATE you!" the daughter retorts.
Extreme, is it not? And, if nothing else, a lesson that a young girl will never, ever forget.
One other incident (among many). The same daughter, having survived into her later teen years, has adopted a bit of an attitude, as later teen girls are wont to do. She's having a tiff with her mother, and she's not about to back down this time. Words grow sharper, the air grows tense, as before a thunderclap, and then, suddenly, Whomp! upside the head.
Ah, but the youngster--an adult, as far as she is concerned--is not having it.
"Do it again," she challenges.
"Do it again," she challenges.
Whomp.
"Nice, Mom. Do it again if you want."
Whomp.
And then, "Do you want me to do it again."
"No," the dazed girl answers. "That's enough."
Mothers are extreme. Mothers are always right. Mothers are not to be messed with.
Although my own mother was a gentle, quiet, angel of a woman, I think now, in my later years, that it might not have hurt me to be squashed now and then by a more decisive, less tolerant thumb. For one thing, I had no idea, growing up, that real women in the outside world could be frightening monsters. Or crazy. I had no frame of reference other than my mother's mild, nonconfrontational nature. I was, therefore, ill-prepared. Moreover, I enjoyed a sort of unchallenged kingship. King Richard, they called me. Which, again, did little to prepare me for the advent of other royal personages, such as queens and princesses and wicked witches. And wives.
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