Help me out here. Do any of you have children? Did I
fail to read the small print on the birth certificate that says that
our offspring are REQUIRED to keep our nerves frayed and frazzled? Are
there some rules of youthdom written in invisible ink that only young
people can read? And are they compelled by their youth to abide by
these rules?
Does the first rule state in all capital letters: THOU SHALL KEEP THY
MOTHER IN A CONSTANT STATE OF FEAR AND ANXIETY! Are they obligated to
wear us down to our last nerve and then to toy with that final nerve
until it resembles some misshapen throbbing varicose vein?
Let me explain. Recently #2 Son called. Even in the initial “Hi, Mom!”
I could detect an emotional note of excitement that I was quite
certain meant only one of two things; .he had won the lottery or had
windsurfed across the Atlantic Ocean. He has no doubt that eventually
he will do both.
My body tensed in anticipation and/or dread, but his next words pushed
these paltry emotions aside and that one pitiful last nerve was again
toyed with. “I did the most incredible, awesome thing yesterday! Guess
what!”
I did not want to hear anything further. When we play the guessing
game, the answer is always something that I DO NOT want to hear. Not
wanting to appear rude by slamming down the phone, however, I played
his guessing game as I’d done so often before.
“You’ve met the mother of my future grandchildren,” I answered with
just the right amount of hope in my voice. “You’ve got a raise. You’ve
learned to iron a shirt. You’ve...”
He cut me short in his urgent need to share with me and my one nerve
this awesome thing he’d done. “No, no, no,” he said, “I jumped out of
an airplane. It’s called skydiving, and it’s totally awesome!”
I cannot say with absolute certainty that I threw the phone down. I
suspect that it was that final, frayed nerve that did it for me. I was
so preoccupied with trying to push my heart out of my throat and back
into its proper place. The thing lay on the floor like some hazardous
waste material.
My child . . .my 26—year-old baby . . .who knew full well that I’d
used up the greatest portion of my nerves flying INSIDE an airplane
for that 6784 hour trip to Okinawa. Now he was telling me that he had
jumped OUT of one, and he felt the need to SHARE this awesome feat
with me. I was beyond outraged. This insane boy whose very freckles
came from my side of the family had done it again. He has a college
education-a MASTER’S degree - mind you, but he has yet to learn that
one simple sentence that all women know from birth: THERE ARE SOME
THINGS A MOTHER DOES NOT NEED TO KNOW! Jumping out of an airplane
would be one example.
Naturally he couldn’t see me lying semi—conscious on the floor because
his excited words continued to spill out. The plane was flying about
80 miles an hour and was 3000 feet high, and we just sort of hung
outside for a minute until the pilot gave the signal to turn loose.
Then we just fell through the air for a while and then the parachute
opened. I have pictures!”
“Pictures!” I heard myself screaming from some distant planet. “I
don’t even want to hear the words, and you’re talking to me about
PICTURES! Young man, listen to your mother. I will use any pictures
you might possess to have you committed to a mental institution. And
how, may I ask, did you get pictures? I suppose you had your little
Brownie with you during this incredibly insane act.”
“The pilot took them. He...”
“The pilot!” I shrieked. “And who was this pilot? Let me get my hands
on him. He’ll wish he’d never heard the word airplane.”
“John was flying the plane. You know. John Byrd.”
“John Byrd!” By then I was incoherent. “Did you say John Byrd? The
same John Byrd who lives across the street and gets upwards of four
traffic tickets in one day for driving a CAR? I hate to admit this,
but you were not altogether wrong to jump out of any plane John was
driving.”
I suppose he knew that he had finally pushed one button too many
because he quickly began to amend his story.
“No, John was not actually flying the plane. He jumped out with me.
Well, actually after me. That, of course, didn’t surprise me.
With great effort I finally got that last little nerve calmed down and
willed myself to be rational.
“OK,” I said, “so you jumped out of a plane. You had your picture made
while doing so. It was totally awesome etc. etc. “You’ve proven your
stupid...uh, your courage and now you’re satisfied and ready to keep
your feet on the ground, right?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “I can’t wait to do it again. And... don’t yell.
Mom. .1 want you to try it with me.”
At that point I realized that it had been a wrong number all along. Or
possibly there had been a baby switch in the nursery all those years
ago. He WAS so much taller than the rest of us. At any rate, I ripped
the telephone cord from the wall and took a handful of tranquilizers.
Our kids - mine at any rate - know just how to pull our strings, don’t
they? We carry them in our bodies for the better part of a year. We
waddle around like ducks, eat with our plates on our stomachs, and
twist and turn to dislodge feet and fingers from our ribcages. After
approximately 67 months, we bring them into the world amidst pushes
and pain. We walk the floor and rock them through a thousand days and
nights of colic. We have our paychecks deposited directly to the
grocery store so that we can haul out the tractor—trailer loads of
food needed to nourish them so that they will grow up big and strong.
Big and strong so that they can JUMP OUT OF AIRPLANES!!
Clearly the colorings and additives, which are added to food nowadays,
make our children demented. I knew from the start that I should have
grown my own food and milked my own cows. Aside from the weekly side
of beef, my children spent their first eighteen years surviving on
Monster Burgers and fries plus the daily serving of pizza in the
school cafeteria. Nothing green ever touched their lips. Enough green
beans and peas have gone down the garbage disposal to feed a small
country.
It was only after they were grown that their eating habits changed.
When Birdman Son #2 was home the last time, for example, he was
foraging in the fridge for edibles. A little shriek of horror escaped
when he saw a stick of butter.
“Mom, I can’t believe you’re eating butter. It’s so BAD for your
health! I have eliminated all fat from my diet. Don’t you have
anything green and crunchy and nutritious?”
“Maybe the next time you pretend you’re a bird, you’ll land in a tree.
While you’re waiting for the guys in white coats, you can nibble on
crunchy pine cones and nutritious green leaves.”
He didn’t respond. Probably didn’t hear me as he crunched on a head of
lettuce and drank a quart of skim milk straight from the carton.
As this child of mine (I can’t deny it. I’ve read his birth
certificate numerous times looking for loopholes.) This eating
machine AKA Superman (he thinks) decimated all the greenery available;
my mind went into a flashback. This child was born without fear. He
left his share of fear/caution with me. The most adventurous thing
I’ve ever done - and I’ll never do it again I might add - is ride a
Ferris Wheel. I was terrified.
He, on the other hand, has always courted danger. He rode his Big
Wheel recklessly. He skated without any regard to my nervous system.
He was jumping off diving boards before he could swim. He rode his
bike faster than I drive. Bones have been broken, and scars and
stitches crisscross his body.
During his windsurfing phase, my heart never left my throat. Any time
Mike Reader even mentioned the words tropical depression, he’d head
for the beach to “catch the breeze”. I’d race all over the
neighborhood trying to borrow a handful of tranquilizers before I
mapped out the evacuation route.
So he visited awhile and ate green things. We talked about Grandma and
various family members. I sat on my tongue until it was bruised, but
no motherly advice was given. When he left, out of habit I said the
usual “Drive carefully”. A waste of words. Later: another phone call
- apparently another wrong number.
“Mom,” the excited stranger’s voice said. “I have just finished my
second jump. Next time I can pack my own ‘chute. That way it’ll cost
$10 less.”
