TO MOM, WITH MY DEEPEST APOLOGIES
(AGAIN!)
(Originally published 27 Aug 97. Posted and re-published 25 January 2003.)
I
am a pig. There’s no two ways about
it. Of course, being a man
automatically elevates me to pig status.
After all, men are pigs. But I
am even a pig among pigs.
It’s
not that I like to hang around clubs and hit up on sweet young things. No, no, not that I wouldn’t hit up on sweet
young things if I could, but, well, I just don’t think Mrs. Schrader would like
it, unless of course the sweet young thing I hit up on was her.
Okay,
so maybe I am being too hard on myself.
But I did do something extremely insensitive and just plain awful--I
forgot my mother’s birthday. And to
think, she was in labor twelve hours when I was born, hard, painful, back
labor, and this is the thanks she gets for all that pain---absolutely
nothing. Some gratitude!
I
will say, while being a father has its trials and tribulations, it is not
painful. I have absolutely no concept
of what labor feels like, and never will.
I suspect, though, that if I had had to deliver the children, there
would be no ren--one would be plenty.
Of
course, being a father is not always easy mentally--there are lots of decisions
to make. Like what TV show to watch
while your spouse is yelling expletives at you while in the throes of
labor. “Quiet, dear, I’m trying to
watch ‘Geraldo.’ Just tell me when the
baby’s born!”
Of
course, things were different thirty-something years ago when I decided to
grace the world with my presence. Back
then, Dads waited in a waiting room, and Moms were knocked out. When Mom woke up, surprise! Here’s Johnny!
But,
regardless of whether or not I really caused my mother much pain when I was
born, I still should have remembered her birthday. And, although being the Mom she is she claims that she
understands that I was a tad bit preoccupied and that’s why I forgot, it is
still absolutely, unequivocably inexcusable.
And I must admit, I was a tad bit preoccupied. The problem is that I was a tad bit preoccupied wallowing in
self-pity.
As
most of you all may recall, or, ahem, should recall, if, of course, you had
actually been reading like I thought you were, my car was smashed while parked
in front of my house about a month ago.
And, as I will readily admit that I am an auto-dependent creature, I
was, well, let’s just say, sent into a funk after losing a member of the family
that predated not only the little Schraders, but Mrs. Schrader as well.
To
this add Mrs. Schrader taking the little Schraders and leaving me all
alone. Now I will admit, it was just
for a few days to visit family, but to me, it seemed like forever, as I hate to
be alone (which is potentially dangerous as I have way too much time to think).
So,
let’s just say that when Mom’s birthday came, I was pretty much preoccupied
wallowing in my own self-pity, which I am pretty good at when I put my mind to
it. Mom actually called me the day
after her birthday, and I, being the man that I am, had to gall to burden her
with my so-called problems! If anyone
should have been giving a “poor, poor pitiful me” spiel, it should have been
Mom, not the other way around.
I
don’t know if it is the Y-chromosome thing, but I know that I am doomed to
repeat the same mistake over and over and over. Kind of like the Bill Murray character in “Groundhog Day.” How, per chance, do I know this? Because it’s an annual thing. Pick a day, any day. Valentine’s Day? Forgot it. Mother’s
Day? Forgot it. Wedding anniversary? Well, let’s just say if it weren’t for Mrs.
Schrader reminding me (with a rolling pin and my suitcases packed, no less),
I’d probably forget it, too.
But,
give me something really important to remember, like homecoming for example,
and I not only can remember it, but I can give you all previous scores to boot!
Poor,
poor, pitiful me.
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