Mom, 56

Chapter 7

Mom, 56

I often question if it’s normal that my mother knows so much about my dating life, but I don’t care �" because she’s not a normal mother. Yeah, maybe I’m a bit of a momma’s boy in some regards, but I don’t hesitate in saying no one shows me more unconditional love or support than she does, that she’s one of my best friends, and that I love her more than anyone else in the world. But still, sometimes I think she knows too much.

It’s Monday morning �" Labor Frickin Day, less than twenty-four hours before summer me dies, and I’m having breakfast at my mom’s house. Usually we get together every few Sundays for dinner and there’s always more people here. John, her husband and my step-father (which sounds strange for a 33-year-old man to say of someone his mother married a year ago) is usually here, but he’s been working in Hong Kong and won’t be home for a few weeks. Most of the time one or both of my sisters are here too, sometimes their husbands, along with some combination of the six children between them, my nieces and nephews -  and I always love seeing them, but it’s nice that today it’s the two of us. 

I’ve always had a special relationship with my mom. She was a single mother who raised three kids alone because my at times insufferable, pain in the a*s father wouldn’t pay child support. She gives the best and most-trusted advice because I know she always has my best interest at heart, and I’m only her son and her youngest child so she treats me differently than she does my sisters �" better, I’d have to say, and they both agree even if mom would never admit it.

I’ve just finished telling my her about the dates I went on over the last few days - the bizarre meltdown of Liza or Lisa, whatever her name was, which still to this day confounds me, the ill-fated coinflip that led to the moment of self-loathing that spurred the fortunate deflation of my feelings for Haley, 31 after hearing of her dislike for dogs - which my mother gasped at, and asked if she was evil, just like Steven did. And that demonic vixen Samantha. It took about an hour to tell that one because my mom wouldn’t stop laughing at all the girl’s names she called me. 

“Sounds like you took a bit of a dent to the ego there, buttercup,” Mom says, laughing her a*s off as she downs her second mimosa, “But keep your chin up. You’re a good person. Just be yourself and you’ll find the right girl. Make sure you’re being safe, though. and don’t be a jackass. You’re not as bad, and I love you to death, but you’ve definitely got a bit of your father in you.” 

That last comment stings a little, but I know she’s right. As much as one of my key missions in life is to strive to be nothing like him, I may have inherited some of his less-than admirable qualities. I can be insensitive at times, stubborn and bull-headed (even though I definitely get that more from her than him), I get lost in my own head constantly like I’m off in my world, and occasionally I’ll say whatever is on my mind, at the most inappropriate times, and without consideration of the audience or the consequences.  

“Alright, so tell me about the book. How’s it coming?” She asks, eyes wide and curious. I

    “Slow,” I sigh. “But getting there. It’s been a rough few days trying to get anything done.” 

    “I can’t wait for you to finish it. I’m so excited to read it.” 

I haven’t let her read any of it yet - and I won’t until it’s ready, “You and me both, but now that school’s starting I’ll have no time.” 

“Still, you must be excited to be going back…?” She asks, filling her glass with champagne. 

    “No. I’m pissed.” 

    “Aww, what’s the matter?” She chuckles, adding a few drops of orange juice. “Two months off isn’t enough for you? I have to work tomorrow. Everyone has to work tomorrow.” 

    “I know, but �"“ 

    “No buts. I don’t want to hear your sob story. You’re killing my vibe.” 

    “Killing your vibe?” I can’t help but laugh at her attempt to use slang, and wonder if this is how my students feel when I use it.

    “Yeah, all that whining. Cut that s**t out.” 

I know best to leave it there. She’s right. It’s happening whether I like it or not. 

    “I love you,” mom says. 

    “Love you too.” 

This conversation highlights one of the things I love most about my mom. Near the top of the list of amazing qualities she possesses is that she’ll call me out on bullshit, but she does it in a loving way. I need that sometimes - someone to ground me (not literally, anymore), someone to tell me when I’m wrong, or when I’m acting stupid, or like a stubborn jackass - that I need to open my eyes to a new perspective, or that if something’s bothering me I just need to suck it up and get over it �" but then afterwards, someone who’ll show me how much they love and care for me. 

    I could spew a thousand stories that could tell you everything you’ll ever need to know about my mom to be certain of the type of person she is. I’ll never forget the time I got suspended from school in seventh grade and how she reacted. That’s right. I, Mister Thomas, esteemed educator, was once suspended from school. Let’s start with the fight. 

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When I was in seventh grade there was this kid named Joel Magner. He’s the kind of student that now as a teacher I have nightmares about. He swore like a drunken sailor; vocalized the nastiest combinations of words you could imagine, usually directed about someone’s mother and the skeevy, unimaginably disgusting things he would do to her. He was a monster. He broke things, terrorized other students, was regularly suspended for smoking cigarettes in the bathroom, and was the undisputed fighting champion of the middle school, whose almost weekly title-defenses by the back-rack behind the building always ended in one punch, if the kid showed up at all.

This kid was huge. He was like six-two, two-hundred and thirty blubbery, pimply pounds. He was the only kid in middle school with facial hair because he’d stayed back like three times and was supposed to be in high school �" and he was definitely the only kid in middle school who could buy cigarettes without the clerk checking his ID. But the strange thing is that for some reason, and I’ll never know why �" while Joel Magner seemed to hate everyone else, it was almost like we were friends. Not real friends �" not the kind that you share things with, do things together, or you actually like as a person because Joel, above all else, was an absolutely repugnant human being �" but the kind of friend you share dirty jokes with, or who you give a few bucks to every now and then because he sells cigarettes; like a PG-13 drug dealer.  

    Yes, amongst my more regrettable life decisions is the fact that I used to smoke cigarettes. I started in seventh grade; stealing a few here and there on the weekends from my dad who smoked about three to four packs a day and never noticed, and thinking I was a legitimate badass as I lit them up. I stopped a few times in between but didn’t quit until I was in my mid-twenties. 

But I needed more, and Joel was the guy who had them. I’ll give him credit for being the businessman he was. Cigarettes must have cost about five bucks a pack back then, but Joel would sell them for a buck a piece to any sucker willing to pay the price. I had money most of the time; from allowance for doing all the chores on the “Chore Chart” my mother made my sister’s and I complete daily. I used to hate it, but it did teach me responsibility and the value of money. If I was desperate, I could squeeze a few bucks out of dad. He never gave mom anything, but I could usually coax or guilt a twenty out of him. 

If you paid with a twenty, Joel always had this stack of ones in his pocket that was thicker than a dictionary, and he’d whip it out and count your change back to you dollar by dollar, and I remember staring at all that glorious green and wishing I was that rich. I now know it was likely about sixty dollars, which is barely enough to put a dent in the electrical bill, but back then it was what my students would call “fat stacks”. 

Despite his notorious reputation, I never had a problem with Joel, even though he was a dick. But one day I was sitting in Mrs. Gaines math class, and for whatever reason, Joel went full Tybalt on me �" declared me his mortal enemy, called me a villain, vowed his vengeance for the non-existent injuries I’d caused him �" but instead of unsheathing his rapier and challenging to me to a duel, he opted to administer slow and painful torture by tapping the back of my neck with a pencil throughout the entire class.

“Dude, stop,” I whispered, expecting that because of the strange bond we shared and his desire to keep the customer coming back, those words would get him to ease off. But like I said, this kid was a dick. There was no rational thought process going through his mind. He was an agent of chaos. 

 The tapping turned into flicking. I can take a joke, but as class went on the flicking became harder. It didn’t really hurt at first, but it was annoying the hell out of me, and he kept hitting the same spot over and over until I felt it sting �" but I didn’t say anything else because that was only going to make matters worse. I just wanted to make it through class. The last flick landed on my neck with a wicked thwap just moments before the bell rang. I sat there fuming, telling myself not to make a big deal out of it, not to stoop to his level, that it wasn’t worth getting into a fight over. Besides, this kid would have kicked the s**t out of me, so I let it go. 

But then when I left class, I saw Joel do something in the hallway that sparked this rage within me, something so despicable that I had no choice but to act. He pushed Christine Sullivan, who weeks later would become the first girl I’d inaccurately bestow with the title of “The One” and I saw red, and I charged at him like a bull �" no, a bulldozer. I barreled into him, took him to the ground and started raining fists of fury down on him until I literally saw red, and it was all over his face and my knuckles. 

And I stood over him, stared down at his bloody, battered face, and I’m sure he was seeing three of me, and all three of the me he saw wanted nothing more than to kick his teeth in �" but even back then, I knew he’d get what was coming to him. I did my part. The universe would take care of the rest. 

Now that I’ve provided you with the appropriate context - here is part two of that story. 

><><>< 

After the fight, I was dragged, yes DRAGGED to the office by the freakishly strong Dean Amara, who was the former girl’s gym teacher turned disciplinarian, and can best be described as a hybrid of Robo Cop, Terminator and Paul Blart. We used to call her Sargeant Amara. My belongings were searched. The ever-vigilant Vivienne Amara made me empty my pockets, my wallet, and dumped the contents of my backpack onto her desk and demanded to know if I had any weapons on me like I’d just committed an act of terrorism. The search for machetes and explosives turned up empty, but I swear there was a second I thought the latex gloves would be coming out. I wish someone was there to see the madness in her eyes.

I was a kid, and I was paralyzed by childish fear. As the dean rummaged through the pockets of my backpack, reality smashed me in the face and all I could hear was my mother’s voice. All my life my mother had she’d lectured about non-violent solutions to problems, talking your way through things and finding a compromise, being the bigger person and taking the high road when you can’t find a solution - but now I’d committed one of the worst offenses imaginable to my mom. I was scared shitless of what she was going to do when she found out. 

“Well, well, well. Mister Thomas. What do we have here?” The dean asked, grinning evilly at me as she lifted her hand from the depths of my bag holding several small white objects in her grasp. Cigarettes.

To my mom, smoking was even worse than fighting. I’d spend half of my childhood listening to her drone on and on about how disgusting it was, how it killed my uncle Rob when I was five, my great Aunt Jody just a year or so earlier, and how she’d kill me if I ever smoked. Those little white sticks in Dean Amara’s hands weren’t cigarettes. They were the nails that would be hammered into my coffin. 

The dean waited for an answer, but I couldn’t speak. Fear had rendered my tongue a vestigial organ, forcing me to sit there silently while Dean Amara called my mother and told her everything. She described in vivid, accurate detail exactly what had transpired - but she didn’t mention the cigarettes. “And… one more thing… a search of his belongings also turned up a few… cigarettes.” 

 I swallowed hard and wondered what miserable fate awaited me after she hung up and said my mother was on her way. Those fifteen minutes felt like an eternity, and all I could think about was how much trouble I was in… probably the most I’d ever been in, and I knew she was going to be absolutely pissed �" and when my mother gets pissed, even to this day as a grown man, it’s terrifying. 

Eons passed before she came into the dean’s office �" five feet, two inches of Portuguese fury - with this look on her face. She glanced at me, and if looks could talk, they’d have told me in the quiet but heart-rending voice she only uses when she’s absolutely fuming, the kind where she uses your first, middle, and last name, “I’m so disappointed in you.” 

She sat down beside me, no doubt furious from being called at work to pick up her son who was being suspended from school, and she took one look at me, just a momentary crushing glance that confirmed what I knew all along, that I was completely, utterly, hopelessly fucked. But then in the ultimate plot twist, she directed that face; that scowl of hers that burns so hot it could melt the paint off a shingle, the one that rarely appeared, but when it did it meant there was hell to pay �" and she beamed into Dean Amara with eyes of stone and fire and fury… and she defended me. 

“How dare you...?” She said, slowly, and in that bone-chilling calm voice or hers, the one that lets you know the time for games is over, that she means business. The tension in the air was so thick you’d need a meat cleaver to chop through it. 

“Mrs. Thom �"“ The dean said, making the mistake of opening her mouth, but my mom cut her off instantly, “How dare you..?” Mom repeated, slower - a single notch louder. Business was booming.

Let me pause for a second. My mom does this thing where she’ll go quiet for a while when she’s at this level of fury, and she’ll just stare at you, like she’s either trying to scare the s**t out of you and make you crumble under the pressure; examining you for weak spots while she considers the most effective torture or extraction method �" that, or she’s trying to goad you into opening your mouth �" but the second you do, she’s repeats whatever she said the first time, a little bit louder, but never yelling, and then she absolutely lays into you. And it doesn’t stop until she decides it stops, and for however long it takes, the floor belongs to her and you better not do anything but stand there silent and listen. That’s about to happen. 

Let’s rewind and hit the play button...

“How dare you?” She reiterated, one increment firmer, a tick more strident and I knew things were heating up (If one of my students did that, I’d praise them for their varied word choice, and they’d earn a big red A+). “This is ridiculous. I’m absolutely appalled. Really? Five days because he did the right thing, really? Because he defended someone, really?” How dare you?”

“Mrs. Thom - “ 

Pause again. The dean made another mistake. Like I told you, when my mom gets like that the floor is hers, and she wasn’t done yet. She might have given the dean the illusion that she was asking questions, but they were purely rhetorical, and just the fact that the dean opened her mouth before she was done sent my mother into this rage that burned hotter than a thousand suns, and my expectation was that there was another side of my mother �" a beast within her that was about to awaken from its long, dark slumber �" and I froze and braced myself for what was about to be unleashed. 

But everything went silent... because you are now about to witness the rarest type of anger in my mom - the kind I’ve only had directed at me a handful of times in my life. The rage of defeat. I saw it that day, but I didn’t know what it was until years later. She knew there was nothing she could say or do that was going to change anything and she’d lost, the great beast remained dormant, and she went silent - not because she was wrong, but because the system was wrong. I’m a lot like my mother in that regard. She knows when to say her final piece, when a battle just isn’t worth fighting �" but even then, and maybe I’m a lot like this too �" she has to have the last word when she knows she’s right, has to make you feel shame for what you’ve done. 

“I am absolutely disgusted,” she said with wrath in her eyes, but they softened as they turned to me, “Let’s go.” Mom got to the, turned back to Dean Amara and for good measure, in that torturous near-whisper that’s absolutely crippling said, “You should be ashamed of yourself.” 

><><><

The story isn’t over. Fasten your seatbelts for this emotional rollercoaster. That was only stage one of my mother’s three-fold reaction to my suspension. In stage one, she defended me. She stood up for me and told the dean she should be ashamed of herself - and if there was even a chance in hell she could have won, she would’ve fought to the death for me. At that moment, my mother was my hero. But once we got into the car, and both doors were shut, stage two commenced. I could feel her stare burning into me like I was being held over a flame…

You know what? Let’s do something crazy and experiment with a new medium here. As a teacher, I’m always encouraging my students to take risks and step outside of their comfort zones, but despite my words, I find myself rarely taking some of the good advice that I give them. Let’s take a risk! 

Act 1. Scene 2. 

[Enter Mom and Seventh-Grade Peter Thomas. Car doors shut. Silence lingers in the air.] 

Seventh-Grade Peter Thomas: [aside] 

Her demeanor hath changed, and I’m horror stricken. 

My stomach wrencheth, my insides become sickened. 

I sit here, awaiting the judgement from hell - 

My soul in grave fear that this black day doth not bode well. 

[Mom says Seventh-Grade Peter Michael Thomas’ first, middle, and last name, then pauses. The silence is dreadful and unnerving.]

My leg quivers, rattles itself in fear;

I can scarcely breathe, for it is so hot in here. 

I knoweth now beyond a shadow of a doubt -

Now that the middle name has come out, 

That with the utmost certainty

A verbal lashing awaits me  

Mom: [her voice raised to a 10]

Never before have I been so enraged with thou, 

How dare you get in a fight at school? How? 

Seventh-Grade Peter Michael Thomas 

But �" 

But �" 

 

Mom: [her voice raised to an 11]

No buts! There is no excuse for your actions today, 

I shall be taking your video games away. 

And you can kiss your computer goodbye, 

Give up on any thoughts of going outside �"    

For thou shall not be leaving the house for a very long time, 

A one-month prison sentence is the punishment for your crime. 

And I swear by yonder blessed moon...

Okay, that’s enough of that. What did you expect? I’m not fricken Shakespeare �" but that’s definitely something I’ll be assigning to my students in the near future: Take a moment in your life and turn it into a Shakespearean scene. But the story isn’t over �" almost, but not quite. She was still in stage two of her three-tiered reaction. Her voice went soft, the kind that crushes your soul the second it finds your ear. It slowed to a snail’s pace, then got even slower. 

“… that if I… ever find out… you’re smoking… I swear… to god… Peter Michael Thomas...  that I… will… take… away… f*****g… everything…” 

I heard the swear, which didn’t come out often back then. I listened as the word  smoking hissed from her lips like she was a snake, was terrified by how long the word everything took to escape her mouth, and I knew she meant it.

My mom didn’t make threats. She made promises. And she wasn’t just talking about taking away “stuff” �" she meant privileges, too. If she said you were grounded for a month, don’t come knocking on her door on day 30 �" because to my mom, if you were grounded for a month, it was a 31-day month. 

“But mom, it’s February! That’s not fair!”

Don’t let the smile fool you. You’d go right to your room the second you were grounded and find that she’d somehow already managed to lug the TV and your computer away even though you’d just been grounded twenty seconds earlier and she’d managed to strip everything down to bare essentials. But she never took the books, and while likely not her intent, that might be one of the reasons I fell in love with them. 

If she took something away, you didn’t see it again until whatever day she decreed �" and asking about it would only prolong its absence. It was the ultimate torture as a kid, because the entire time you dreamed of having it back �" but she knew exactly what she was doing, and it’s like she was studying you, measuring you, and up until two seconds before she handed it back to you, you wanted it so desperately; but then she’d give it back right as you forgot about it�" and you didn’t care because you didn’t want it anymore. But the joke’s on you �" because she was only studying you to determine what she could use against you the next time, and she always figured it out. 

But she did it with love, even when she was like Mount Vesuvius at the point of eruption, and I was running and covering for my life. I can’t say it enough. I love my mom, and I’ve learned more from her than anyone else. She’s the first and best teacher I’ve ever had (sorry Mrs. Cad, I have to amend what I said earlier) and stage 3 is where I learn some of the most valuable life lessons �" and no matter how pissed she gets along her three-staged journey; it always ends with love. 

Mom put her hand on my shoulder and told me she was proud of me. She said she understood why I did what I did, and that what I did was the right thing. She wasn’t even mad about the fight, but she reminded me once more that she would end my existence if I ever got caught smoking, but “I love you” were the last words she said before she started driving, and even though I was in trouble, and would be banished to my room henceforth, we stopped at McDonald’s on the way home. 

><><>< 

Twenty or so years later, I’m still thinking about that day, how she validated my feelings, made me feel and know that what I’d done was right. And I’ll never forget what she taught me - that some battles aren’t worth fighting, that others are - that life has consequences even if you do the right thing and stand up for what you believe in �" but that at the end of the day, someone loves you and is proud of the person you are. 

And yes, I kept smoking after that despite my mother’s warning �" I just never got caught. She knows the truth now and she still gives me endless s**t for it every time it comes up and still lectures me on what happened to my uncle and my aunt �" and she’s right. It was stupid, but making stupid decisions is part of being a kid.  

After we’ve exhausted every topic of conversation and I’ve vented to her for at least half an hour about my struggles with finishing the book (according to my mother, venting is constructive, complaining is not), I give her a hug and tell her I love her before I leave. She kisses me on the cheek, and says, “Love you too. I know you’ll finish it.”