Family
We Were Terrible Children, We Are Lucky Mom Didn’t Kill Us All
Remembering my dead mom on her birthday

My mom’s birthday is this month. Thinking about my mother, I remember most that I had no clue how hard she had it raising six bad little children. Not only did she have to provide us with food, clothing, and shelter, she had to contend that we kids did something whenever she went out to work. Once the youngest went to full-time school, I became the after-school babysitter because no one wanted to babysit us. We were bad as hell.
Once, my brother found a garter snake outside. My bravest sister slipped the reptile into her panties and called the babysitter to help her. I remember how funny it was when that girl ran out of the bathroom screaming, grabbed her coat and stuff, and ran out of our house. We laughed and laughed. It was the funniest prank ever — until my mom came home.
When mom found out what we had done, she set the stove timer, pulled out a thin coat belt, and whipped everyone’s butt from oldest (me) to youngest (the four-year-old with the snake in her pants) until the timer dinged. It felt like she set it for at least an hour. Yes, I knew about the snake. I thought it was funny, too.
Another time, my brother got my dad’s shaving cream and put it in his mouth. Next, he got some ketchup and pretended he had caught his penis in the zipper of his pants. He started rolling around on the floor, spitting the shaving cream out and rubbing his pants where he had put the ketchup on his fly. The babysitter flew to the phone and, before we could stop her, called 911.
When the paramedics arrived, they found out about the prank, laughed with us, patted my brother on the head, and left. The problem was that someone called my mom and told her the police and paramedics were at her house. We are confident it was one of our neighbors who turned us in. Ma left work to come home to her children. When she got home, there was hell to pay.
She set again the timer. This time it was not a coat belt but a big wide leather belt that was the weapon of ass destruction. We also had to pull our pants down. Mom gave this whipping with the special spanking talk, one word per lick cadence. “Don’t–you — ever — make — me — have — to — leave — work — again. I — work–too — hard — for — your–dumb — asses — to — act - like- heathens. So — em-bar-ras-sing.”
Once the spankings were completed, we had to strip and clean all the beds, mop the floors, and dust the house with our asses still red from the metering out of punishment. We were so tired when we went to bed that night that our hurting asses did not keep us awake.
From then on, whenever we thought about doing something unusual, one of us would say: “Will this make Mom come home if she hears about what we want to do?” If the answer was yes, we would not do that, no matter how much fun it might be.
Trust me. We never made Ma leave work again because of our foolishness. When my mom made a point with her kids, we understood the assignment.
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