Mother's Day: the Original Check-in System

I was on the front porch when you drove by and I waved, going inside to mark May 10 on my calendar and write “Call your mother!” in bold black letters and you should too, because, no kidding, your mom wants you to call. She’s older now, and what if she slips in the supermarket freezer aisle without her summer sweater and freezes to death next to Ben & Jerrys’ Chunky Monkey? How would you feel then?

You do realize she could have had a great life on Broadway or Hollywood but no, she met your father and put glamour and fame behind her and later had you instead. All that pain, and then out you came, not the high point of her day, trust me.

She changed your poopy diaper when the stench would have stopped the 82nd Airborne in mid-air. And when you hopped up and ran off naked, leaving a trail of brown nuggets scattered behind you, she cleaned that up, too.

She raised you, loved you, fed you, and sure, at times she judged and corrected you, but that’s what mothers do. And let’s face it, you were no sweet angel-sent-straight-from-Heaven. You could come home with spiders tattooed on your face and she still would see the good in you. During my entire Led Zeppelin phase, when I grew my hair long and suffered a flaming case of facial acne and spent every waking hour brooding and sulking, no one liked me. Only my mom.

So, call your mother.

She literally sits by the phone for hours, staring at it, wondering where you are and what you are doing. She wonders who those cute little ears of yours are listening to these days when they should be listening to the most important person in the world, your mother. We raised three boys in our castle, and Her Majesty the Queen Mother, expects a phone call from her boys no later than noon every Mother’s Day or face judgement that would make the Spanish Inquisition look like a social tea with crumpets.

I’m not saying the call is easy. It can be a lot of work. Mothers have high expectations of their children. My mother is 93, I call her twice a week, and each time she acts like I just got released from a hostage situation.

“I’m so glad you called! What have you been doing? I thought something may have happened so I’ve been watching the news but they didn’t say anything. I figured you’ve been busy. You’re okay, right?”

Technology has not helped. She’s confused by the iPhone and we stopped FaceTime years ago as it was like a horror movie with zombies running in and out of the screen, big round giant eyeballs, close ups of lips the size of zucchinis, and panic when one of us would suddenly leave the screen. The greatest leap in technology during my mother’s childhood was the four-slice toaster.

It was easier and simpler in the pre-Graham Bell days, when your only obligation was to take quill in hand and write your mother a letter whenever you weren’t hunting for venison, searching for the Northwest Passage, or helping Lewis and Clark with directions. But, it’s not about us, it’s about your mom, and it makes her happy to hear your voice.

So, call your mother.

Why fight it? You’re no match for your mother and you know it, sweetcakes. She raised you as well as your father and if she had to, she could hold her own against a Roman gladiator. You barely have a pink-belt in toe wrestling. She can wear you down, fill you with guilt, and stay in your head until you pick up the phone and call.

So, just do it, because when she’s no longer here you will miss her. That is why you pay homage to her this month, on Mother's Day. You entered this cold world causing her more pain than she thought possible and now she won't ever give up on you.

Buy her something nice, like a set of gold ingots. Or a long black car with a handsome chauffeur.

She's your mama, honeybuns. Call her. Okay?