Maternal Spawning Unit

I have oft said, "Well, my Mom loves me."

Quickly followed by, "She has to. There is a law or some shit."

I have never impregnated a woman, let the cells divide into the parasitic organism, and then molded the amphibious, genetic mish-mash that would be my offspring, into the inevitable Lord of All They Survey... So, I do not get "parenting".

My Mom, despite many, many reasons not to, loves me...

I have scared her since I am old enough to remember. I got behind the wheel of a car when I was three-ish, and sent it ambling down a hill... Seeing as how she had lost one child to this method before, I can not fathom the horrifying depths of seeing it unfold before her again... I would loathe the shit out of a bastard for doing that to me...

I was, and still am, a complete nightmare to my siblings. Growing up, I resented my older brother for being the shining example... I resented my little sister for... well, existing... This was not constant, all the time, all out hatred, more stupid sibling stuff. We did have some moments that pushed the boundaries of all out war though. I never thought of what it did to Mom. My biggest regret would be the lack of relationship with my siblings. Not gonna change anytime soon, because I am an asshole. Sorry, Mom.

I would say our final battle of wills happened when I was sixteen-ish... I was in a particularly bad mood over something completely inconsequential, and proceeded to thrash my room. Threw my bed vertical, found an arrow under said bed, threw it into the closet door... THUNK!... Bookshelves flung about. Then came a pleasant knocking, a gentle rapping upon my chamber door...

When I opened the door, she was standing there, peering at the carnage, holding her jump rope. "Put. It. Back."

"I kinda like it this way," At this point, I think the b-word was was about halfway out... The aforementioned jump rope (Old timey cloth rope, metal spring clasps, and SOLID WOODEN HANDLES), wielded with ninja like accuracy, became a blur. A wooden handle cracked me on top of my head.

When I came to, I decided to fix my room. And apologize...

When I was seventeen-ish, I had escaped to the upper peninsula of Michigan. Sault Ste. Marie. I was conquering the big, bad world... But, needed some cash... So I call Mom. Collect. (Back in the day, you could call someone and they would pay for the long-distance call) (Back in the day, a call outside your area, was called "long-distance" - Young people suck.)

"Hi, Mom. I need dough."

"All right."

"Cool. Talk to ya later. Love ya."

"Anything else?"  *

"Nah, I'm good."

Click.

About five minutes later, the fact that it is September 13th is learned. Seven minutes later, the realization that the date has significance is haunting my pea brain. Nine minutes later, another collect call...

"Mom."

"Uh huh?"

"Happy birthday. I suck as a human."

"Sometimes."

"Do I still get the cash?"

"Yes."

"I love you, Mom."

"Uh huh. Love you too, son."

There was a time, where every fiber of my being was in agony. Soul wrenching, mind numbing, hellish torment. I was in a phone booth, in Turkey, and told that my first marriage was ending. I knew the only way I was going to get through that first night was hearing the seven words, from the one person on the planet who I could trust implicitly... I needed to hear my Mom tell me "Everything is going to be all right." I needed my Momma.

She has seen me at my best, seen me at my worst. Known me longer then anybody else. I think I worry her more then the other kids... They seem to be all stable and shit. I am still buying swords... And cool cars...

I got her a gift... I think she wants me to make a phone call to that one person who Mom knows made me happy... I know what Mom wants more than anything. She wants me to be happy. That is the goddamnedest thing about the woman. She wants everyone to be happy. Me. My exes, my friends, my enemies. The only person who she wants to rot in hell, is George W. Bush... And Cheney... She is so fucking cool.

I did call her today. We performed our ritual...

"Thanks for having sex with Dad that one time."

Without fail, the reply, "Oh, my pleasure."

Despite all the trials and tribulations I have presented her with for over 40 years, she loves me. STILL. Boggles the damn mind. I guess it must be that bond that only forms when you squeeze out a pup from the Play-Doh Fun Factory of Life... I just don't get it. No male on the planet ever will.

I could tell a thousand stories of how she played a major role in making me the man I am today. Some good, some bad... But the most important fact remains this... She was, and continues to be, there for me. Without fail. Without hesitation. Without reservation. Mild trepidation... It is me, after all.

Mom, I love you,

dougie.

* - THAT'S A HINT!!!!

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