Son, Your Vulcan Death Glare Doesn’t Faze Me.

Son, Your Vulcan Death Glare Doesn’t Faze Me.

Son, Your Vulcan Death Glare Doesn’t Faze Me.

 

Dearest Son,

If looks could kill, I would have died a thousand painful deaths yesterday while prepping wax beans, slain by your slitted, venomous eyes.

And I’m oddly okay with that.

Let me explain.

I love you with all of my heart. Not only is that unconditional, unavoidable, and intuitive, it’s also part of my job description as a mom.

What is not part of my job description is that I be your best friend or your favorite person. The job does, however, require that I guide you with the wisdom, knowledge, and character, which, for better or for worse, I’ve been refining these many, many years.

Therefore, if I see you going astray in some fashion, I am going to mention it. Perhaps several times until you modify your behavior. Perhaps every five minutes for an entire week of hell on earth until I’m confident that you have heard me, understood why it’s important to change what you’re doing, and have changed, not just for the moment, but for the long term. Consider me your relentless shepherdess with an electrified staph who will poke, prod, and zap you until you’re on the right path and intend to stay there.

If you don’t enjoy being zapped, get back on the right path. It’s fairly simple.

My job description also includes a clause that requires that I will not say yes to everything you request, that I will tell you the truth even if it’s not always what you want to hear, and that I will rain down on you with the wrath of a swarm of ornery hornets if you dare to treat another human being, especially one you mistakenly perceive as somehow less than you, in an unkind, disrespectful, or unequal manner.

This molding phase of my job is finite. I only have about 18 years to shape you into the type of man capable of going forth and doing wondrous things in our world: one who will truly make a positive, impactful, and much, much needed difference.

After the molding phase, I’ll still be employed as a mom, only I’ll switch from rough and ready sculptor to detail artist: finely buffing and polishing any irregularities where needed. It won’t hurt you nearly as much as the first phase, I promise, however, the detail artist stage of my work will live on until I no longer do.

Unfortunately for you, a mom’s job is never, ever done.

And as far as your slitted glare is concerned, if I see it again, I’ll have to assume that a trip to the optometrist is in order, pronto, where we will purchase a pair of hot pink, horned rimmed glasses that I imagine will stop your squinting problem on the spot, and which I’m sure all of your friends will adore in your new Facebook profile pic.

Got it? Great!

Love always,

Mom

 

Written by Becky


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8 Comments
  • Becky says:

    For those of you who didn’t ask but are wondering, this isn’t specifically about Loge or Spence. It’s merely my general feeling on parenthood: how if we strive to always please and coddle our children, we end up raising adults who are ill-equipped to lead productive adult lives and to better our world.

  • Patty from MMC says:

    As a mom of 3, 2 boys and a girl, I have been “privileged” to have that slit glare at me many times from all 3. I think it’s about par for the course!!! Well said.

  • Harvey says:

    So eloquently said. Great post

  • Audrey says:

    I know this job description well. They will Thank us for a job well done when they have children of their own. Keep up the good work!!! Loved this!

    • Becky says:

      Thanks! You’ve done remarkably well at your job, Audrey! If I were your boss, I’d give you a double promotion and a generous bonus.

  • Bonnie says:

    Beautifully said and spot on, Becky!


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About Me:

Hi! My name is Becky. I’m a mom, a wife, a friend, a writer, and a compulsive thinker. Don't invite me to a spa or to shop the day away, but rather, make me laugh, engage me in interesting conversation, play a game with me, or give me a cappuccino and homemade vanilla bean flan and I’m yours ‘til the cows come home.

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