Copyright 2000 W. Bruce Cameron
In my opinion, my mother's job (that is, raising her children, of which I am one) is basically finished. I am taller than she is, I weigh more than she does--no one ever comes up to me any more in the grocery store to ask me where my mommy is.
To my mother, however, I am still a work in progress, requiring frequent course corrections lest I stray off the right path and turn out differently than she intends.
For example, here is a transcript of a telephone conversation with my mother. Nothing has been edited out but the sound of my teeth gnashing.
Now, to you uninitiated, this sounds like a radical change of subject. But I know whom I'm dealing with, here: The conversation to this point has merely been setting the stage for this topic. Susan Humphries is a girl I dated for a while in high school before she decided to try someone handsome.
After a discussion like this one I find it relaxing to writhe on the floor and tear at my clothing. My blood pressure has been known to affect barometers as far away as St. Petersburg, Florida, and neighbors have called the police to report they can hear an animal somewhere "in terrible pain." I truly believe that if the FBI were tapping my phone as part of a criminal investigation, they too would be so maddened they would open fire on my house the moment they heard my mother's voice.
Yet I suppose if I WERE appointed governor of Nevada, the first person I would call would be, of course, my mother. That's just the way things are.
I'd let HER call Susan Humphries.
Copyright W. Bruce Cameron 2000
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