Obviously, lacking the necessary plumbing, I am not a mother. However, I had a mother who I loved very much, who I think about every day, and wish I could talk to (face to face) just one more time. She died on Good Friday, 2000, which is an interesting coincidence, because she was born on Holy Saturday, 1932.
One Saturday afternoon, my brother Kip and I were having one of those arguments that brothers have on occasion, and I go so frustrated or angry or whatever that I grabbed one of his coin-collecting folders and tossed it out the back door.
Kip immediately yelled for Mom, who came out, and after he told her what I had done, she raised her hand to slap me. I didn’t want to get slapped, so as she swung, I put my elbow up and blocked her. The slap that was intended for my face landed, with some force, on my bony elbow. Now she was in pain, and really angry, and decided to kick me in the shin. Unfortunately for her, she was wearing tennis shoes, and while her kick hurt, it hurt her more.
Not wishing to injure herself further, she ordered me to go out in the yard and pick up Kip’s coin folder, and limped away. She ended up with a bruise on her hand that took a week to heal and limped a little for a few days after that. Meanwhile, Kip and I had a laugh at her expense. Whatever we were skirmishing about had been forgotten.
I’m sure he’ll have something to say about this now…