SUMMARY: Moms rule the world. As children, moms raise us. As adolescents, they put up with us. As we mature, if we are lucky, they become our friends, too, and that’s the best part of all.
By: Paul S. Marchand
Moms rule the world. The rest of us just live in it.
“I brought you in this world, and I can take you out.”
“Be good to me....”
The lines may come from Bill Cosby and Tina Turner, but I know more than one mom who has taken them and made them completely her own, especially when dealing with teenaged boys. As a mother of my acquaintance (who had herself raised boys) once suggested to me, being pregnant was a commando raid; putting up with teenaged boys was like fighting the entirety of World War II.
And inside every man living, straight or gay, there is still an adolescent boy, with occasional outbursts of adolescent boy angst. Were this not the case, of course, Corvette sales to middle-aged men would tank. It doesn’t matter whether we are gay or straight, guys can snap back to being seventeen at a moment’s notice.
For that reason, and for many others as well, Bill Cosby’s and Tina Turner's lines, as appropriated and spoken by moms everywhere, never go out of use or style. After all, no matter how old we are, every human being with a mother living knows one indisputable thing: mom has seen us naked, and may well have the pictures to prove it.
And in truth, there are only two beings before whom we are at least metaphorically naked. To God and our mothers, “all hearts are open, all desires known,” and “no secrets are hid.” And if, to quote the old Russian proverb, “God is high and the Tsar is far away,” our mothers may be neither so high as God, nor so far away as the Tsar, as kids, we often wished it so.
Because for most of us as kids, mom always had a kind of sixth sense to know when we were doing something we shouldn’t be. “I was convinced my mother had eyes in the back of her head,” one of my cousins used to say. Of course, those eyes in the back of my aunt’s head were actually the eyes of every mother or grandmother in the neighborhood, and all of them were alert to the goings-on of the neighborhood kids.
For my cousins and me, growing up an a close knit neighborhood in Los Angeles’s Hollywood Hills, the West African proverb about it taking a village to raise a child wasn’t a political sound bite for conservative pundits to rage against. It was a simple, matter-of-fact, day-to-day reality. The urban village of our childhoods was a village of moms and gramdmas with an inter-maternal communication network that would make Facebook look tame.
Of course, I shouldn’t try to make our little bit of L.A. sound like some sort of Arcadia (in the classic sense, not the zip code). Of course it wasn’t. We had our own rough passages, and our own share of crises, but we navigated them; with the neighborhood moms leading the way, we somehow saw each other through.
Indeed, seeing each other through seems to be part of a mother’s basic job description. Not only have our mothers seen us naked, they’re there when we get our childhood scrapes, sprains, and strains. Mothers and sons (and, I am told, fathers and daughters) form bonds that can run the gamut from conversation to sheer conspiracy (“Don’t tell your father what we got him for his birthday....”).
If we are lucky, as we grow older, we get past that stage of viewing mom as a hopeless, antediluvian luddite who knows nothing at all, and develop something more precious than even a bare, biological relationship; we become friends.
When I was fifteen, my mother knew nothing and I knew everything. Or so I thought.
As I make my way through my fifth decade, I’m amazed at how much my mother has learned in the interim, and how much I’ve unlearned.
All irony aside, my mother will always be my mother, and she’s still seen me naked, and probably still have the pictures to prove it, but she has also become a dear friend, and that is something I cherish more than any words I could possibly write.
And so, to my mother, whom I call The Duchess: Happy Mother’s Day.
-xxx-
PAUL S. MARCHAND is an attorney who lives and works in Cathedral City, CA. The views expressed herein are his own, and do not necessarily represent the views of any organization or entity with which he is associated. They are not intended to constitute, and should not be construed as constituting, legal advice, though Mr. Marchand would suggest that you be good to your mother, because she brought you in this world, and she can certainly take you out.
By: Paul S. Marchand
Moms rule the world. The rest of us just live in it.
“I brought you in this world, and I can take you out.”
“Be good to me....”
The lines may come from Bill Cosby and Tina Turner, but I know more than one mom who has taken them and made them completely her own, especially when dealing with teenaged boys. As a mother of my acquaintance (who had herself raised boys) once suggested to me, being pregnant was a commando raid; putting up with teenaged boys was like fighting the entirety of World War II.
And inside every man living, straight or gay, there is still an adolescent boy, with occasional outbursts of adolescent boy angst. Were this not the case, of course, Corvette sales to middle-aged men would tank. It doesn’t matter whether we are gay or straight, guys can snap back to being seventeen at a moment’s notice.
For that reason, and for many others as well, Bill Cosby’s and Tina Turner's lines, as appropriated and spoken by moms everywhere, never go out of use or style. After all, no matter how old we are, every human being with a mother living knows one indisputable thing: mom has seen us naked, and may well have the pictures to prove it.
And in truth, there are only two beings before whom we are at least metaphorically naked. To God and our mothers, “all hearts are open, all desires known,” and “no secrets are hid.” And if, to quote the old Russian proverb, “God is high and the Tsar is far away,” our mothers may be neither so high as God, nor so far away as the Tsar, as kids, we often wished it so.
Because for most of us as kids, mom always had a kind of sixth sense to know when we were doing something we shouldn’t be. “I was convinced my mother had eyes in the back of her head,” one of my cousins used to say. Of course, those eyes in the back of my aunt’s head were actually the eyes of every mother or grandmother in the neighborhood, and all of them were alert to the goings-on of the neighborhood kids.
For my cousins and me, growing up an a close knit neighborhood in Los Angeles’s Hollywood Hills, the West African proverb about it taking a village to raise a child wasn’t a political sound bite for conservative pundits to rage against. It was a simple, matter-of-fact, day-to-day reality. The urban village of our childhoods was a village of moms and gramdmas with an inter-maternal communication network that would make Facebook look tame.
Of course, I shouldn’t try to make our little bit of L.A. sound like some sort of Arcadia (in the classic sense, not the zip code). Of course it wasn’t. We had our own rough passages, and our own share of crises, but we navigated them; with the neighborhood moms leading the way, we somehow saw each other through.
Indeed, seeing each other through seems to be part of a mother’s basic job description. Not only have our mothers seen us naked, they’re there when we get our childhood scrapes, sprains, and strains. Mothers and sons (and, I am told, fathers and daughters) form bonds that can run the gamut from conversation to sheer conspiracy (“Don’t tell your father what we got him for his birthday....”).
If we are lucky, as we grow older, we get past that stage of viewing mom as a hopeless, antediluvian luddite who knows nothing at all, and develop something more precious than even a bare, biological relationship; we become friends.
When I was fifteen, my mother knew nothing and I knew everything. Or so I thought.
As I make my way through my fifth decade, I’m amazed at how much my mother has learned in the interim, and how much I’ve unlearned.
All irony aside, my mother will always be my mother, and she’s still seen me naked, and probably still have the pictures to prove it, but she has also become a dear friend, and that is something I cherish more than any words I could possibly write.
And so, to my mother, whom I call The Duchess: Happy Mother’s Day.
-xxx-
PAUL S. MARCHAND is an attorney who lives and works in Cathedral City, CA. The views expressed herein are his own, and do not necessarily represent the views of any organization or entity with which he is associated. They are not intended to constitute, and should not be construed as constituting, legal advice, though Mr. Marchand would suggest that you be good to your mother, because she brought you in this world, and she can certainly take you out.