The Meanest Mother In The World
Copyright© 1967 by Bobbie Pingaro
I had the meanest mother in the whole world. While other kids ate candy
for breakfast, I had to have cereal, eggs or toast. When others had
cokes and candy for lunch, I had to eat a sandwich. As you can guess,
my supper was different than the other kids' also.
But at least, I wasn't alone in my sufferings. My sister and two brothers had the same mean mother as I did.
My mother insisted upon knowing where we were at all times. You'd think
we were on a chain gang. She had to know who our friends were and where
we were going. She insisted if we said we'd be gone an hour, that we be
gone one hour or less--not one hour and one minute. I am nearly ashamed
to admit it, but she actually struck us. Not once, but each time we had
a mind of our own and did as we pleased. That poor belt was used more
on our seats than it was to hold up Daddy's pants. Can you imagine
someone actually hitting a child just because he disobeyed? Now you can
begin to see how mean she really was.
We had to wear clean clothes and take a bath. The other kids always
wore their clothes for days. We reached the height of insults because
she made our clothes herself, just to save money. Why, oh why, did we
have to have a mother who made us feel different from our friends?
The worst is yet to come. We had to be in bed by nine each night and up
at eight the next morning. We couldn't sleep till noon like our
friends. So while they slept-my mother actually had the nerve to break
the child-labor law. She made us work. We had to wash dishes, make
beds, learn to cook and all sorts of cruel things. I believe she laid
awake at night thinking up mean things to do to us.
She always insisted upon us telling the truth, the whole truth and
nothing but the truth, even if it killed us- and it nearly did.
By the time we were teen-agers, she was much wiser, and our life became
even more unbearable. None of this tooting the horn of a car for us to
come running. She embarrassed us to no end by making our dates and
friends come to the door to get us. If I spent the night with a
girlfriend, can you imagine she checked on me to see if I were really
there. I never had the chance to elope to Mexico. That is if I'd had a
boyfriend to elope with. I forgot to mention, while my friends were
dating at the mature age of 12 and 13, my old fashioned mother refused
to let me date until the age of 15 and 16. Fifteen, that is, if you
dated only to go to a school function. And that was maybe twice a year.
Through the years, things didn't improve a bit. We could not lie in
bed, "sick" like our friends did, and miss school. If our friends had a
toe ache, a hang nail or serious ailment, they could stay home from
school. Our marks in school had to be up to par. Our friends' report
cards had beautiful colors on them, black for passing, red for failing.
My mother being as different as she was, would settle for nothing less
than ugly black marks.
As the years rolled by, first one and then the other of us was put to
shame. We were graduated from high school. With our mother behind us,
talking, hitting and demanding respect, none of us was allowed the
pleasure of being a drop-out.
My mother was a complete failure as a mother. Out of four children, a
couple of us attained some higher education. None of us have ever been
arrested, divorced or beaten his mate. Each of my brothers served his
time in the service of this country. And whom do we have to blame for
the terrible way we turned out? You're right, our mean mother. Look at
the things we missed. We never got to march in a protest parade, nor to
take part in a riot, burn draft cards, and a million and one other
things that our friends did. She forced us to grow up into God-fearing,
educated, honest adults.
Using this as a background, I am trying to raise my three children. I
stand a little taller and I am filled with pride when my children call
me mean. Because, you see, I thank God, He gave me the meanest mother
in the whole world.
Written by
Bobbie Pingaro ©1967
