I’ve been home for a few weeks and I found out that some of my family and friends have been reading my blog. Mostly they like it, but my mom is horrified.
“This is terrible!” she fretted. “They’re gonna read it and think that I raised you wrong.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“‘Binge drinking is awesome?’ Morbidly obese zebras?” she replied. “I didn’t teach you that stuff, but they’re going to think I did. Really you just went wrong on your own and I didn’t have a thing to do with it.”
Hmmmm. I didn’t think any of that stuff was that offensive. I know my mom reads my blog, so I keep that in mind when I write it. I really try to make it mom-friendly. Imagine what my blog would be like without my mom! It would be full of profanities and sexual promiscuities and racial epithets. Ok, not really, but I think it’s good that she reads them because it kind of keeps me in check. It doesn’t let me get too out of control.
But I guess I haven’t been doing a good enough job and I need to get a better mom filter.
So, for the record, when I am getting degrees and being polite, my parents taught me that. When I am writing blogs about ovaries and zebras, that’s all me. So don’t blame my parents.
This kind of reminds me of when I was young and I would do something annoying, silly or destructive and my mom would say, “You’re definitely your father’s son.”
And I would think, “Who else’s son would I be? Unless there’s something you’ve neglected to tell me! Was this fact in question until now?”
But then whenever I would do something smart or clever she’d say, “That’s my boy! You get that from me.”
On the other hand, my dad never really cared who taught me what. He was just happy when I did something right. He’d say, “Wow, that was pretty smart! I’m surprised. I had assumed from your track record that you would be doing something stupid. I guess every once in a while you’ve got to mix things up and do something intelligent, is that it?”
My dad used to get frustrated when I would do stupid things, but I did stupid things so much he just started to laugh about it. Like, one time I wrecked the car (“wrecked” is not quite the right word, more like “a small crash into a small ditch”) and I called him on the phone to tell him and he just laughed and laughed.
But like I’ve said, parenting is a rough job, and after eight kids my parents are just hollow shells. Laughing is all they can really do.
Anyway, if you see my mom on the street, please tell her what a nice young man I am.
Lie if you have to.
PS – After all the stuff I write my mom said she wonders what the people who read my blog think she’s like, so feel free to leave a comment describing how you envision her.