The nicest person I know.


My mom is one of the nicest people I know. She doesn’t understand that gruff, no nonsense, don’t mess with me attitude that I inherited from my dad. I am honest to the point of being brutally honest. I know what kind of man I am, and I am not bothered by what people think of me.


My dad has been picking on me, teasing me, and laughing at me since I started talking. No it wasn’t abusive. It was a process. That process armored me against insults and threats. Only a handful of people can hurt my feelings. All of them share my last name. 


My mom is always ready to share her love. At one point or another she’s baked a birthday cake for everyone she calls friend or family. It was my mom that sat with me and watched scary movies and TV shows when I was young.  She took me to see Conan the Barbarian at the Eastwood Cinema even though it didn’t interest her. 


A few year’s back I saw “Kolchak: the Night Stalker” at Walmart and had to buy it. I watched every episode for a second time and drifted back to elementary school age.  It will always brings back memories of cold winter nights, sitting on the couch, scared out of my wits, and eating skillet popped popcorn with my mom and my little sister. 


There’s a difference between mom and dad that is subtle, but written in stone for boys. With dads you have to hold pain in. Moms want you to let it out. 


The result is Mom is one of the few people that can hurt my feelings. When I was 24, I broke my finger in three places at work. I called my wife and told her I was headed to the hospital. She called my mom. 


When mom showed up, she slapped lightly across the cheek and said with tears in her eyes, “You need to be more careful.”  I was a grown man, but for a moment I was five again. I couldn’t stop it. I burst into tears. 


No matter how old I am or how tough I may act to the rest of  world, I’ll never be older than five when I am hurt and my mom is around. 

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