The alter ego that I am most comfortable with never presents herself to my offspring. She is a hybrid of Kathryn Hepburn and Mother Theresa and does not cook or take care of sick people. They are all well advanced into adulthood, but somewhere indelibly imprinted in their psyche’s are various actions I committed when they were children. Occasionally I get a hint of the person my kids believe I am and I don’t like it. They rank me somewhere between Betty Crocker, Aunt Bea and Joan Crawford’s “Mommy Dearest.” The person I was required to be when they were growing up, no longer exists.

The Moms that no one knows are rebelling. You know, the one who isn’t thrilled about getting a blender for Christmas. The one who throws the milk away before the expiration date. Then there is the mom who always wanted a tattoo and by golly goes and gets one.

Moms who nixed senior year keg parties can drink her out of shape kiddos way under the table. Moms who now sports low cut jeans without a muffin top drew the line when their teenage daughters allowed way too much of their anatomy to show up between them and their Calvins. She trained her female offspring not to glorify men, but unabashedly ogles the UPS delivery guy’s bun. Any mention of mom’s sexuality is strictly off limits.

Most will not admit it, but parents are liars. We had to be in order to parent. Had we told the unvarnished truth, our presentation would have been mostly gray instead of black and white. Running with scissors would have had a knockout clause.

The character of June Cleaver caused more harm to American moms than any other icon. I am sure somewhere in her heart, she wanted to wear slacks and ditch the pearls. She would have divorced Ward, banned Eddy from her house, told Wally to get over himself and sent the Beaver to a shrink.

My kids know all of my irritating habits, but I‘ll bet they will be surprised when they discover something I did not do. To wit:

Child 1: your baby book is three-quarters complete.

Child 2: your baby book is one-quarter complete.

Child 3: A baby book was never purchased for you.

Get over it. I’m at the tattoo parlor.

Categories: Biased, Unbalanced and Politically Incorrect

Tagged as: mothers

JoAnn Williams

I am a lifelong Southerner, short story author, and essayist. Home is Dallas, Texas.
My essays have appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, The Dead Mule School of Southern Writing.