It’s downright impossible to write a disparaging column about mothers at any time for any reason, yet it does enter one’s mind just for the pure audacity of doing it.
A person would clearly have to be out of their mind to even think about it, but like the 800-pound gorilla in the room, the thought arises because it’s there. The taboo of slandering so sacred of a subject ranks No. 1 in the ranks of verbal suicide. To do so would surely be grounds for excommunication from any species. There is absolutely no fathomable reason for even entertaining the idea of “dissing” motherhood with all its sanctity and hallowed being. And, yet … stop it! Don’t even think about it! What are you … Satan? Clear the mind. Start over in your thought process and just write a sweet glowing tribute, smile, nod and move on!
But why is there this nagging voice that keeps on rolling around in my mind that challenges my right to free speech—should I be controlled by the complete terror of saying even one little probing slur? Fear is in man for a very good reason. It’s there to control your actions and to prevent you from being horse-whipped and dragged through the streets by an angry mob. Do not, and I cannot stress this more, do not attack mothers!
OK, I got the evil out. I’m back to being a responsible journalist and I’m ready to utter some well-chosen platitudes in honoring those who gave us life.
M is for the many things you said to me … (“Mmmm, you really could have been successful.”)
O is for the opinions in your reply … (“Ohhh, so that’s your decision.”)
T is for the touchy sores you opened … (“That tattoo was a surprising choice.”)
H is for the hesitance in your smile … (“H-h-h-how will you possibly manage?”)
E is for the endless times you’ve warned me … (“Oh, you better not do that, sweetheart.”)
R is for the rightness of your guile … (“Well, I guess you could do that, dear. I never would, but …”)
“Put them all together, they spell mother. I guess we won’t be talking for a while.”
Happy Mother’s Day everyone. (It wasn’t so bad, was it?)
Nice talking to you mothers.
Mr. Millspaugh still lives in a log cabin.