TO ALL OF THE MOTHERS, PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE

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Happy Mother’s Day!

Yes, I know that Mother’s Day is not until Sunday, but my column runs on Tuesdays, so I am five days early. Or 360 days late.

Either way, I want to take today to say thanks to all of the mothers out there, but in particular my mother, as she, not the other mothers, is the one who had to take approximately 64,000 phone calls from my teachers, many of which started off with something like, "Mrs. Gibbons, were you aware your son brought an aardvark to school?" (The answer was usually "No.")

My mother will forever serve as a symbol of patience and understanding. She raised four children, all of whom, by my last count, are out of prison. (I guess it would be a little clearer if I said, "Have never been to prison." It’s not like we all just got paroled.) I am the fourth child and only boy, which means that I am, undoubtedly, the favorite son. My sisters must continue to duke it out for sisterly supremacy, while I can bask in the glow of favoritism.

My mom stayed home with the children until the youngest (who also happened to be the smartest, best looking and most entertaining) was in third grade. As scores of women were heading to the workplace, my mother was always quick to point out that staying at home was also a choice. My mom has always had what I call Traditional Independence. She stayed at home to raise the kids, but she did it on her terms, not someone else’s.

When my mom did head to work, it was as a teacher. And, by no small coincidence, she went to teach third grade. Where I went to school. Now, you may think that it would be great to have Mom just across the hall. Well, you may also think that lighting your hair on fire is a good way to illuminate the night sky. While most children who misbehaved would have their recess time docked, I was sent out to stand in the hall. Right in front of my mom’s class. I still remember the look I would get when my mother’s eyes would drift from the chalkboard to the hallway and see her only son standing there, a lock of a classmate’s hair in his hand. It was only a matter of time before I heard those dreaded words that mothers have used to frighten children since the dawn of time: "You wait until I tell your father about this."

To this day, I remember the important life lessons my mother taught me. Some of them seem common sense these days, but at the time, some children had to be told, "Do NOT try and make your sister eat a hairbrush!" Little did I know it at the time, but my mother spent my formative years teaching me lessons without letting me know I was being taught lessons. I was sometimes a handful. OK, I was often more than a handful. And I am sure that my mother was plenty embarrassed when I started screaming in church or sprinting down the aisle of the grocery store or standing in the middle of a busy street holding up traffic. (And all of this was just last year.) But she never told me I was an idiot (which I often acted like) or that I was an embarrassment (which I often was) or that I would be sent to live with a tribal nation in South America (which she probably should have). When I did or said stupid things, my mother would instead sit me down and talk to me. She would tell me what I had done wrong, why it was wrong, and that she was disappointed. And disappointing her really stung. I still try to live my life so I don’t disappoint my mom. And, the beauty of it is, I know that if I give it my honest best, my mom won’t be disappointed.

I remember one time when I was a kid and my mother took me shopping for jeans. I went through Tuffskins like Marlon Brando through a calzone, so this was a common event. As we were walking out to the car, I was looking in the bag and at the receipt. I noticed that the clerk had charged us for only one of the two pairs in the bag. I handed my mom the receipt and said, "Free jeans!" My mother grabbed my hand, did a 180, and headed back to the store, not even pausing to consider taking a pair of free jeans. You see, she had meant to slip two extra pairs in the bag, instead of just one, and was going back for the rest of her loot.

No, I’m just kidding. My mother went back and told the clerk what had happened and paid for the other pair. On the ride home, I asked my mom why we didn’t just keep the jeans (and perhaps use the "saved" money on something important, like Star Wars figures). "Because," she said, "it was the right thing to do." That one stuck with me to this day. I may not be perfect. I may not make all of the right decisions. But I try to do the right thing. And, on occasion, when a clerk forgets to ring up something in my grocery cart, I always return to the store, often to the shock of the clerk, and tell them they failed to charge me for a sack of frozen peas. I do it without thinking. I do it without even a momentary pause of wondering if, just maybe, this time, I deserved something for free. I do it because it’s the right thing to do. Thanks, Mom.

Happy Mother’s Day.