Mother’s Day Guns & Ammo

With Mother’s Day this Sunday, all of you children – and you know who you are – should honor your mothers. If you don’t want to praise her with fancy dinners or gifts of perfume and jewelry, try a refreshing angle. Use the opportunity as a day of confession to bring you closer.

I’ve named this year the Mother’s Day Air Clearing Event. The process is simple and I’ll demonstrate with a practice run.

Start by phoning your mother. Better to unload your conscience from a distance than in person because your mom’s dropping jaw and arching eyebrows will become too distracting. If you must be in the same room, remove all guns, ammo, and projectiles from her reach.

Here goes. Mom? Remember when I was a teenager and told you those purple marks on my neck were burns from my curling iron? They weren’t. Oh, you already knew? Then this confession doesn’t count. Yes, mother, same reason I wore a turtleneck during that July heat wave. If it’s any consolation, he was a really cute lifeguard.

Mom? Remember when you found a dent in your car and I played dumb? Turns out my friend, Julie, accidentally bumped your door when she drove me home one night. She was too embarrassed to tell you and swore me to secrecy. You figured that much? True, Julie didn’t come around for a few weeks. You’re good! Apparently you DO have eyes in the back of your head.

Mom? Remember years ago how I said the dog made that stain on your white recliner? Well, it was me. I spilled a glass of grape juice and blamed Mini’s weak bladder. I might have blamed her bladder on a few spills, now that I think of it. I know, you’d just had it recovered. What was irresponsible, telling a lie or drinking grape juice on a white recliner? You’re right, both.

Isn’t this air clearing a fun way to spend Mother’s Day . . . Mom? Are you still there? Sounds like she hung up. I haven’t even made it to the part about the kitchen fire or the sunken canoe. The news of her stained chair must have been too much for her heart.

Maybe I’ll save the confessions and dazzle her with a handmade card and throw in some verse. Dear Mother: Roses are red, Violets are brown, For putting up with me as a teenager, You deserve a night on the town.

My gardening isn’t any better than my poetry, which is why my violets are brown.

I hope the stores are open tonight. In an emergency, it’s acceptable to buy a card packed with canned sentiments. Hallmark and Carlton are my heroes.

Along with my card, I’ll play it safe and give her a day-at-the-spa gift certificate. Or money. I still owe her for that dent in her car. Love you, Mom.

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