Mother's Day

The only picture I could find where Mom and I both had our eyes open at the same time.

In light of last week’s update, I’d just like to clear the air about my mother. Now, you may have got the impression from her red wine fueled faux-pas that she, while inebriated, is simply a ticking time bomb of sensitive information about me. This is most certainly true; however, Mom is almost never drunk, so she’s only really embarrassed me maybe five times in my entire life. This is no doubt a great disappointment to her, as both she and Dad have made it clear almost every day that they want nothing more than to embarrass the bejeezus out of me as much as possible. As they see it, half the reason to have kids in the first place is to embarrass them in front of their friends. And so, on this Mother’s Day, I’d like to say this much, Mom: You may not embarrass me very often, but when you do, you do it so damn well.

“Oh, no, Truman’s a cop out,” you’re saying. “He’s writing about his mother on Mother’s Day – boo, hiss! Write about alcohol and sex again, we like it when you do that!” Here’s the thing: My mother is arguably the main reason my blog is funny. For one thing, if not for my mother I wouldn’t have been born, and blogs that don’t exist are generally not only tough to read but also rather dry in terms of content. But what I think is really important – yes, even more important than being born in the first place – is that my Mom happens to be one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. Example: My mother can do an impression of Ethel Merman singing “White Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane. Can your mom do that?* No, she can’t, and that’s why I have a blog and you’re reading it.

*Before this even starts, I’m not insulting your mother, I’m just letting you know that her Ethel Merman impression doesn’t hold a candle to my mother’s. I’m sure your mother is a very nice lady, and she’s probably much better than my mother at math or bow hunting or some crap like that.

A lot of people I’ve talked to have asked me how my Mom happened to know that I was spending most of my time in college trying to get laid. It’s quite simple, really – I was talking with my parents on iChat and Mom said, “So, what have you been up to?” And I said, “Oh, the usual, just trying to get laid.” And then Dad started laughing and Mom squawked and threw a napkin over her face, as she usually does when I manage to turn the tables and embarrass her. Why would I say something like this to my own mother? Honestly, I don’t even know. This is clearly not a thing that normal people do. Abraham Lincoln did not discuss his sex life with his mother – just another reason that he won the Civil War and I’m still struggling with Guitar Hero.

For some reason, taboo subjects have always been a comfortable topic for family discussion. At breakfast one morning in high school, I referred to our principal as a “tool”. My Mom and Dad, uncertain of what the term meant, looked at one another, and then my Mom said, over our toast and orange juice, “What, you mean like a dildo?” Once, while out driving somewhere with Mom, I noticed an Adult Shop right next door to a Jack In The Box. “Huh.” I said. “Mo’ like jack off in the box!” And we laughed! Oh, how we laughed! Of Thomas Kinkaid, self proclaimed ‘Painter of Light’, Mom once said, “You’d need a Painter of Light when your head is stuffed that far up your ass.” I can’t remember the last time Mom told me to watch my language, or grounded me for making crude jokes at dinner. On the rare occasions that I’ve had a girlfriend over at the house, Mom quickly gives up on her mission to embarrass me and will instead become sweet and witty before quickly absenting herself in order to create as much ‘alone time’ as possible. Furthermore, whenever she reenters the room she makes a point of clearing her throat loudly before coming in, as a sort of warning. It’s always worked as intended, but there have been a few close calls.

Now, of course, all of this sounds like the sort of thing that a responsible mother wouldn’t do. I mean, talking about dildos? Simply giving her son the opportunity to make out without even forcing him to sneak around first? On TV there was always the kid with the “cool” mother who lets him get away with all kinds of stuff, but then there’s always that really melodramatic episode where it turns out that there’s something messed up in the family, like somebody cheating on somebody else or maybe the kid’s brother is a robot, that explains why the kid is getting such a responsibility free upbringing. There’s the prominent opinion in our society that in order to be a good mother, you can’t also be a good friend.

I’ve got to say, I disagree with all that. My Mom treated me as an equal for most all of my upbringing. I was never hounded about grades, homework, or keeping up with the trumpet – I just sort of did it on my own, with my parents’ help when I needed it. I did these things on my own because from an early age my parents made it clear to me that they’d be proud of me no matter what I did, even if I became a gas station attendant or, worse yet, a blogger. Because they didn’t pressure me I felt like I was achieving for myself as opposed to them, which was why, in sixth grade, I did my homework instead of simply taking the easy way out by killing my worthless hack of a science teacher. I’m not discounting any other method of parenting, I’m just saying that I think I turned out alright myself, having spent my adolescence swapping dirty jokes with my mother. I don’t consider myself entitled to anything (except unconditional love from everyone I meet, and also an Xbox 360), and so far I haven’t murdered any of my friends for drug money – although I’m not below selling their possessions on eBay.

So, yes, I love you Mom. I know you hate Mother’s Day because you think it’s a cheap excuse for Hallmark to make money, but since you didn’t bat an eye when I elected to stay in Eugene to see Barack Obama instead of coming home to see you, I owe you at least this much. You’re sweet and intelligent and hilarious, and nobody makes fun of Republicans quite like you do, and you’re a fabulous cook, and you always say nice things about my blogs even when they’re not that funny and we both know it, and when I was sick last year you sat there with me while I threw up which is a truly nasty job but even a year later I still can’t tell you how much I appreciate it, and I promise that when I finally do bring a girl home she won’t have any visible tattoos or extraneous body piercings. Happy Mother’s Day.

Truman Capps will feel sincerely awkward if anybody starts crying after reading this, especially if they’re not his mother.