Tag Archives: mom

My Mom is Better Than Yours

Allow me a moment to sound a bit childish:

My Mom is better than Yours!

There I said it. I know, I know, you probably think I’m joking. I mean, there’s a pretty good chance that your mom is awesome. She might have super powers. She might be winner of multiple “Mom of the Year” awards from the International Association of The World’s Best Moms. Still, as awesome as your mom is, she’s not as awesome as my mom.

It isn’t hard to figure out why my mom is so great. I mean, she did raise four pretty good kids. I mean, look at me! I’m almost a functional adult and I pretty much started out as far from that as humanly possible. It didn’t matter to my mom, though. No matter how broken and twisted my brain might have been, she just keep plugging away at making sure I became a real boy.

Look, I write about my dad all the time,but the truth is, he wouldn’t be the dad he was if it wasn’t for my mom.

She is a force of maternal nature.

Seriously, you don’t want to mess with her.

She can comfort any pain with a hug or fill you with guilt over the dishes with a mere expression on her face.

She can simultaneously cook a dinner and crochet a pair of warm slippers.

One time, she singlehandedly photographed a bear!

She instilled in me an appreciation of country music that I believe makes me well rounded.

I have to admit, the majority of my memories of my mom involve silly conversations in the car or semiserious conversations while she sat knitting and watching TV. I know we had many serious conversations as well, but I have a pathological need to avoid remembering serious things.

As I sit here writing this, I’ve come to a sudden realization that my mother has made some rather bawdy jokes over the years. How have I never noticed that before….

My mom is one of the few people I know that can type faster than I can. She’s a hell-of-a-lot more accurate, too.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard my mom drop the F-bomb, but she’s said just about all the other swears in my presence.

She has all these practical skills that I will never possess, like the ability to catch fish or grow plants.

To keep this post short and sweet, my mom rocks  the casabah.

Your mom might be Super-Mom. Your mom might even be a Jedi.

No matter, what, though, you mom isn’t as awesome as mine.

That’s just a scientific fact.

Slashing It All To Pieces – Excerpts from the Cutting Room Floor – Part 3: My Mother

Today’s excerpt is roughly 400 words from the middle of a section about my mom that pushes in on something like 2000 words by itself. I like this piece of it because it hi-lights what I, as a man without children, think is the essence of motherhood. It’s a bit tongue in cheek and I hope you enjoy it for what it is.


I take after my mom quite a bit, and not just because I look like her. My mother helps people, any way that she can, and though she’s tempered it with caution over the years, she is still more likely to say yes to someone in need than to turn them away. This is a trait that I have developed also. My mother instilled in me an empathy for the people around me, and I do what I can to take care of them because that is what she would do.

I was not raised in a particularly religious household. I didn’t need to be, because my both of my parents are kind, generous people with a strong sense of what is right and wrong. We didn’t need to have a religious figure to tell us to do good, because we had parents that just expected that of us. I can remember being young and being slightly afraid of making my father angry because he could be a strict disciplinarian, and his sharp tongue would cut deep into you in just the right way.

As hard as it was to bare his words, though, it was, and continues to be, so much harder to see the look of disappointment and hurt on my Mom’s face. That silent look of disapproval still shuts me down at my core. She gave me that look if she caught me drawing on walls or stealing candy, and it slides onto her face when I come inside from smoking a cigarette now. She doesn’t hold it on me, though. She has a way of knowing if I feel guilty, and she’ll say something subtle and almost conspiratorial, like, “Matt’s got to go on his cigarette break.” Knowing that she is aware that I do something she disapproves of takes all of the pleasure out of doing it.

When faced with a moral decision, I find myself asking, “How would my mom react to what I’m doing?” Generally, I do the right thing. When I talk to my friends about their moms, I can’t help but wonder how it is they’ve ever been able to do something right in their lives if their moms really hadn’t given them a sense of right and wrong the way mine did. How can you expect someone to do good, if they aren’t worried about disappointing their mom?