Mamacita says: It makes me sad that so many parents are not allowing their children to dwell in the world of innocent fantasy.  These parents feel that to allow it is equivalent to lying to their children about what is real and what isn’t.

Don’t they understand that to a child, both worlds are real?  I’ll go one further: to all people of any age who retain their believing hearts, and who use their brains as God (and biology) intended, both worlds are real, too.

My daughter was seven when she asked the question I’d been dreading for seven years: “Mommy, is there really a Santa Claus?”

However, thanks to Caroline Quiner Ingalls, I knew exactly how to answer her. And, this answer fully satisfied my little child, and me.

Laura and Mary’s Ma knew how to explain to her children about Santa Claus without destroying their faith in miracles and magic:

. . . then Laura had a chance to speak without interrupting. She said “There isn’t any fireplace.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” Ma asked her.

“Santa Claus,” Laura answered.

“Eat your supper, Laura, and let’s not cross bridges till we come to them,” said Ma.

Laura and Mary knew that Santa Claus could not come down a chimney when there was no chimney. One day Mary asked Ma how Santa Claus could come. Ma did not answer. Instead, she asked, “What do you girls want for Christmas?”

. . . “Ma!” (Laura) cried. “there IS a Santa Claus, isn’t there?”

“Of course there’s a Santa Claus, said Ma. She set the iron on the stove to heat again.

“The older you are, the more you know about Santa Claus,” she said. “You are so big now, you know he can’t be just one man, don’t you? You know he is everywhere on Christmas Eve. He is in the Big Woods, and in Indian Territory, and far away in York State, and here. He comes down all the chimneys at the same time. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Ma,” said Mary and Laura.

“Well,” said Ma. “then you see – “

“I guess he is like angels,” Mary said, slowly. And Laura could see that, just as well as Mary could.

Then Ma told them something else about Santa Claus. He was everywhere, and besides that, he was all the time.

Whenever anyone was unselfish, that was Santa Claus.

Christmas Eve was the time when everybody was unselfish. On that one night, Santa Claus was everywhere, because everybody, all together, stopped being selfish and wanted other people to be happy. And in the morning you saw what that had done.

“If everybody wanted everybody else to be happy, all the time, then would it be Christmas all the time?” Laura asked, and Ma said, “Yes, Laura.”

–from On the Banks of Plum Creek, by Laura Ingalls Wilder

You’re welcome.

Some people prefer paper; others prefer plastic.  Is it any of my business?  No.  I prefer paper – the kind with handles – but it’s still none of your business.

Cloth diapers?  Disposables?  Honestly, was there EVER a topic less anybody’s business other than the one who has to do all the diaper-changing?

Does it really matter how we dress our children as long as they’re protected from the elements and decently covered?  It does not.  If you don’t like the way my children are dressed, that’s too bad.  I think your kids look like little hookers and pimps, but I’m not going to tell you that.  My kids got to choose their own outfits, and it didn’t bother me in the least that my son wore sweat pants until 5th grade or that my daughter spent most of her “at home” time in a frilly full slip.  Big deal.  As for how they dressed when they played outside in hot weather. . . well, it was fun while it lasted, wasn’t it, kids.

Note:  if you DO allow your kids to go out in public dressed like pimps and whores, don’t act all shocked or surprised if someone tries to buy the advertised product.  The world is full of ignorance and perversion, and parents who let their kids dress like that are, in a way, both.

Are you in love with a man?  A woman?  A man who used to be a woman?  A woman who used to be a man?  I don’t care.  I have all kinds of friends, and I like them all.  None of that is any of my business.  Or yours.

Did you choose to breastfeed your kids?  I think that’s lovely.  Did you choose to bottlefeed?  I think that’s lovely, too.  Really, it’s none of my business how you fed your babies, and it’s none of yours, either.  Fighting over which method is best is silly, childish, selfish, and makes me think you’re not all that secure or confident about your own choices.

If your kid is parking his Harley, hanging his leather jacket over the back of a chair, grabbing a bag of Fritos and a ham sandwich, ogling a Playboy, and then demanding to be breast or bottle-fed, expect society to give you the stinkeye, but even so, it’s still nobody else’s business if you’re a bunch of weirdos or not.

Worship however you please – or not.  Drive any kind of vehicle you want.  It’s none of my business what brand of cheese you buy.  It’s none of my business if your kids know Harry Potter by heart, or if you have banished all things HP to the back of the line behind your row of Disney fairy tales, because of their witchcraft and spell content.  Wait, was that in HP or in your Disneys?  Hmmm.  Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo was a spell, wasn’t it.  Oh dear.

Speaking of inconsistency – that’s really the only thing I despise.  If you’re going to ban Harry Potter ,because of the witches and evil, you’d better not have Disney’s Sleeping Beauty, Little Mermaid, Snow White, Beauty and the Beast, etc, in your home, either, because if you ban one and not the others, you’re a hypocrite.  And I loathe hypocrisy.

Even so, it’s still none of my business if you’re a hypocritical git.

Do what you want.  Let others do the same.  Back off.  Shut up.  Lay off.  Etc.

The majority of what other people do is none of your business.  Live your own life, and don’t throw stones unless you’re perfect, yourself.

That would, of course, be nobody.

I’m tired of my ankles turning because of the nuts. I’m tired of mowing over the nuts and flinging them towards someone else’s yard.

Everywhere I turn, it’s nuts, nuts, nuts.

I can’t even walk without stepping on nuts and tripping.

I’m reminded of a fall drive we once took, when the kids were small. We drove past a farm, and as usual slowed down so the kids could see the animals. In this case, pigs. Huge pigs. Huge male pigs. Huge male pigs who could hardly walk. And why, you might ask, couldn’t the huge male pigs walk around in their pen?

Same reason nobody can walk around in this yard. They kept stepping on their darn nuts.

The kids still talk about that trip. Well, not the TRIP, per se, but the sights. That one, in particular.  In fact, the kids still quote me.  I guess it IS pretty funny, what I said, but the truth was, I was flabbergasted by the sight of those huge nuts being stepped on by those huge sharp hoofs.  I’d tell you what I said, but I’m afraid you might not respect me any more if you knew.  Besides, one of my kids will probably tell you all in the comments anyway.

We used to have the same problem with balls, but that, like this, was purely seasonal.

Bring it on, Google.

Remember that anecdote about the young bride whose husband asked her why she cut the beef roast in half before she put it in the pan?

She told him she did it that way because her mother always did it that way.

So the young husband asked his mother-in-law why she had always cut the beef roast in half before she put it in the pan. Her reply? She did it that way because HER mother had always done it that way.

At the next family dinner, the husband asked his wife’s grandmother why she had always cut the beef roast in half before putting it in the pan. Her reply? Because her mother had always done it that way.

His wife’s great-grandmother was still alive, so he went to the nursing home and asked her why she always cut the beef roast in half before putting it in the pan. Her reply?

“I only had the one small pan, and the only way a roast would fit in it was if it was first cut into two pieces.”

When my children visit, I often think of this story. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but it might as well be, because so many of the things we do make no sense except in the context of the past.

Both of my children love grilled cheese sandwiches. I mean, who doesn’t? Secondly, neither of my children will touch a grilled cheese sandwich unless it is made with Velveeta.

Thirdly, and most importantly, I can grant these wishes because A. I won’t eat a grilled cheese sandwich unless it was made with Velveeta, either, and B. Velveeta is a name brand food I can actually AFFORD!

When my son visits, he often requests grilled cheese sandwiches the minute he enters the house.  When he was a little boy, the only way he could eat a grilled cheese sandwich was if I mashed it down flat with the spatula after the Velveeta had melted. THEN his little mouth could close around it, and he could eat the sandwich “like a man.”

He’s an adult now, but he still wants his grilled cheese sandwiches flattened with the spatula. Why?  Because that’s how his mother always made them.

When he gets married, I can’t wait to hear his wife’s reaction when he asks her to mash a perfectly good sandwich flat. Will she question it, or just do it?

Sometimes, family traditions have serious beginnings and funny middles. As for the endings, there aren’t any, not really.

(Rerun.  You’re not crazy.  At least, not on this account.)

Mom and Dad interacted with us, just enough to make it special.

I do NOT, however, recall my parents being at my beck and call. I knew kids whose parents were at their beck and call, and we made fun of them – both kids and parents.  Even when we were really little, we knew such a relationship just wasn’t, well, RIGHT.

When my parents got down and played with me, it was a big deal, partly because it was such super extra fun, and partly because it was rare enough to be a genuine treat.

Mom was busy. I remember her ironing in front of the tv while the kids played all around her. Was she playing with them? No, she was busy. But it was all right, because we knew where she was and what she was doing, and we knew if we needed her she would drop everything and come.

We played outside in the yard. Our house was on a VERY busy corner, and the wide street was dangerous. We did not go near it because we had been told not to. Period. We played with each other and with the neighbor kids. If a parent had tried to play with us, we would have been frightened and we would have gone into the house. I mean, jeepers. All the parents in the neighborhood, however, watched over us and never hesitated to tattle if there was something they thought another parent would want to know.

I did not expect my parents to play with me constantly; why should they? The world is not supposed to be a 100% blend of adult-child things; there is an adult world and there is a child’s world. Frequently, they interact; mostly, they do not.

Nowadays, however, I guess I should phrase that last: mostly, they SHOULD not. Because in many households today, the children are in charge.

“Play wif me, watch Barney wif me, sit wif me, stack blocks wif me. . . .” And the parent drops everything and lets the child be the person in charge of the household, because to deny a child immediate pleasure is to be a bad, bad parent.

Children do NOT need a parent to play with them every minute of the day. Children need to be forced to acquire the inner resources to entertain themselves. Most kids own enough toys to stock a store; put the kid in there and tell him he’s on his own because you’ve got grown-up things you simply must do. Be sure you can keep a close eye on him, if he’s tiny, but make him do some exploring on his own, for crying out loud. And speaking of crying out loud, don’t fall for THAT one, either.

A child who doesn’t have the inner resources to entertain himself becomes an adult who requires outside stimulation (shut up) at all times because they don’t have what it takes to sit quietly and dream, or think, or draw, or read, or open the damn toy box and find something to play with. Requiring your children to learn to entertain themselves encourages them to become imaginative and creative. Being at your child’s beck and call discourages these things.

Far too many parents give up and turn on the tv for hours, every day.   That creates yet another generation of adults who can’t entertain themselves; it has to come from OUTSIDE themselves. How many adults do you know who MUST keep the tv on pretty much 24/7 because they CAN’T function without some sitcom or show on, always? I know several. Listening to background music isn’t the same thing at all, because there is no picture – often not child-friendly – for a kid to be captivated by.

Do not become your child’s on-call playmate. Make your child entertain himself. Whenever you can, sit down and play with him, but honestly? Your kid does not need a grownup play buddy. Your child needs to learn how to figure out how to play by himself.

Is your child more important than housework or yard work or home office work, etc? Absolutely. But your child also needs to learn that Mommy or Daddy is NOT at their beck and call, 24/7.

“Playpen” is a dirty word for many parents, but the fact is, with a playpen, you can put your tiny tiny toddler in there with some toys and get some work done. “But he cries when I put him in there!” So what? Let him cry a while, and eventually he’ll see he’s getting nowhere and he’ll start to play, by himself. This isn’t a sad pitiful thing, poor lonely child, etc; it’s a step towards independence and a step towards becoming a person who has what it takes to keep himself occupied and entertain himself, and become resourceful, so he won’t grow up to become a person so in need of outside stimulation and affirmation and so “entitled” to attention in all aspects of life that he talks out loud in the theater, bellows in a restaurant, talks on his cell phone in public, is at a loss if he finishes a test early and is told to just sit there and read for ten minutes, doesn’t have any homework and can’t handle the free time in study hall, etc.

Play with your kids whenever you can. But don’t let your kids rule your home, and don’t deny yourselves your share of the “adult” world you are so very much entitled to by reason of your ever-advancing age. And yes, those ARE grey hairs and yes, they appeared AFTER you had kids.

Seriously? There is something sad and creepy about a parent so involved with her kids and their activities that her feelings are hurt when the kids don’t invite her to play, too. It’s almost as creepy as the kids who have no conception of figuring anything out themselves because a parent is ALWAYS there to explain every. single. little.thing.

The children’s novel “Understood Betsy,” which is one of my favorites, has this to say:

“. . . Elizabeth Ann had always before thought it an essential part of railway journeys to be much kissed at the end and asked a great many times how you had ‘stood the trip.’

She st very still on the high lumber seat, feeling very forlorn and neglected. Her feet dangled high above the floor of the wagon. She felt herself to be in the most dangerous place she had ever dreamed of in her worst dreams. Oh, why wasn’t Aunt Frances there to take care of her! It was just like one of her bad dreams – yes, it was horrible! She would fall, she would roll under the wheels and be crushed to. . . She looked up at Uncle Henry with the wild eyes of nervous terror which always brought Aunt Frances to her in a rush to ‘hear all about it,’ to sympathize, to reassure.

Uncle Henry looked down at her soberly, his hard, weather-beaten old face unmoved. “Here, you drive, will you, for a piece?” he said briefly, putting the reins into her hands, hooking his spectacles over his ears, and drawing out a stubby pencil and a bit of paper. “I’ve got some figgering to do. You pull on the left-hand rein to make ‘em go to the left and t’other way for ‘other way, though ’tain’t likely we’ll meet any teams.”

Elizabeth Ann had been so near one of her wild screams of terror that now, in spite of her instant absorbed interest in the reins, she gave a queer little yelp. She was all ready with the explanations, her conversations with Aunt Frances having made her very fluent in explanations of her own emotions. She would tell Uncle Henry about how scared she had been, and how she had just been about to scream and couldn’t keep back that one little. . . But Uncle Henry seemed not to have heard her little howl, or, if he had, didn’t think it worth conversation, for he. . . oh, the horses were CERTAINLY going to one side! She hastily decided which was her right hand (she had never been forced to know it so quickly before) and pulled on that rein. The horses turned their hanging heads a little, and, miraculously, there they were in the middle of the road again.

Elizabeth Ann drew a long breath of relief and pride, and looked to Uncle Henry for praise. But he was busily setting down figures as though he were getting his ‘rithmetic lesson tor the next day and had not noticed. . . OH, there were were going to the left again! This time, in her flurry, she made a mistake about which hand was which and pulled wildly on the left line! The horses docilely walked off the road into a shallow ditch, the wagon tilted. . . help! Why didn’t Uncle Henry help! Uncle Henry continued intently figuring on the back of his envelope.

Elizabeth Ann, the perspiration starting out on her forehead, pulled on the other line. The horses turned back up the little slope, the wheel grated sickeningly against the wagon-box – she was SURE they would tip over! But there! Somehow there they were in the road, safe and sound, with Uncle Henry adding up a column of figures. If he only knew, thought the little girl, if he only KNEW the danger he had been in, and how he had been saved. . . ! But she must think of some way to remember, for sure, which her right hand was, and avoid that hideous mistake again.

And then suddenly something inside Elizabeth Ann’s head stirred and moved. It came to her, like a clap, that she needn’t know which was right or left. If she just pulled the way she wanted them to go – the horses would never know whether it was the right or the left rein!

It is possible that what stirred inside her head at that moment was her brain, waking up. She was nine years old, and she was in the third A grade at school, but that was the first time she had ever had a whole thought of her very own. At home, Aunt Frances had always known exactly what she was doing, and had helped her over the hard places before she even knew they were there; and at school her teachers had been carefully trained to think faster than the scholars. Somebody had always been explaining things to Elizabeth Ann so carefully that she had never found out a single thing for herself before. This was a very small discovery, but it was her own. Elizabeth Ann was as excited about it as a mother-bird over the first egg she hatches.

She forgot how afraid she was of Uncle Henry, and poured out to him her discovery. “It’s not right or left that matters! she ended triumphantly; “it’s which way you want to go!” Uncle Henry looked at her attentively as she talked, eyeing her sidewise over the top of one spectacle-glass. When she finished – “Well, now, that’s so,” he admitted, and returned to his arithmetic.

It was a short remark, shorter than any Elizabeth Ann had ever heard before. Aunt Frances and her teachers had always explained matters at length. But it had a weighty, satisfying ring to it. The little girl felt the importance of having her statement recognized. She turned back to her driving.”

If you’re not familiar with Understood Betsy, by Dorothy Canfield, run out and get it immediately! It’s a charming story, full of delight.

Parents, you also don’t need to tiptoe around the house and speak in whispers when the baby naps. Let the baby learn to sleep through the natural noises of a busy household, and you’ll save yourselves and everyone who lives with you YEARS of tip-toeing and whispering. You’ll also end up with a child who has learned not to wake up every time a feather falls to the floor.

I remember when Mom was teaching my brother to stay in his own bed all night. That first night, his crying broke all of our hearts, and it lasted pretty much all night, too. The next night, he went right to sleep and stayed in his bed all night.  Today, he is a highly successful university professor.  I see no signs of own-bed-trauma in his life.

They test us. They test us constantly. As they get older, the tests get harder. During the first years, they cry a lot to try and break us. As they get older, we cry a lot because sometimes, they do. But we can’t let it show, or we’ve lost.

Oh, and that curse all mothers put on their kids, the one that goes “I hope, when you grow up and get married and have kids, that you have a kid who is JUST LIKE YOU.”

That curse works.

By the way, the biggest problem with childrearing advice is that the best advice often comes from someone who has learned these things the hard way and wants to spare young parents from the same battles. The second biggest problem with the best childrearing advice is that young parents don’t know what these old people could possibly know about raising children.

Times change. Babies don’t.

Unless, by “change,” you are referring to diapers, in which case, starting saving your money now. Oh, and if you’ve got a sensitivity to bad smells, buck up and get over it.

My point? Do I have to have one?

You are not obligated to play with your children every waking minute. You are an adult and you have things to do, too. Kids will learn if you give them no choice. Make sure they know you’re nearby and can hear them, but require them to learn to develop inner resources for themselves. We’ve already got more than enough adults who don’t have what it takes to keep themselves internally entertained; we certainly don’t need any more.

One of them usually sits by me on a plane.

P.S. I’m not talking about newborns here; heck, I used to wear my newborns,  although I also used to put them in the playpen to keep the cat off them when I went downstairs to do laundry.  I was glad to have that playpen when the big snake got into the house, I’m tellin’ ya.

(Rerun.  Yes.)

Once upon a time, we were just sisters and wives and daughters when we got together, sharing a mom and having first names.  Now, we’re all Mom, Mommy, Grandma, Mamaw, Aunt, Great-aunt, mother-in-law . . . . I can remember days when I couldn’t remember the last time someone called me by my actual name.

I also remember, clear as a bell, the first time my child said my new name.  Mama.  That moment is etched on my heart, in beautiful calligraphy, and decorated with fresh flowers.  I still love to hear my children say “Mom.”  These women whose children refer to them by their first names, instead of some variation of mother?  I pity both woman and child.  Somethin’ WRONG wit dat.  Somebody gots her priorities all messed up.

Naturally, this doesn’t keep me from snickering at women who choose a synonym for “grandmother” that sounds like poo or a body part.

Contrary to popular belief, mothers are not omniscient;  we don’t have eyes in the backs of our heads, and we can’t read your mind.  The only exception to that would be MY mother.

And speaking of my mother. . . Mom, I have tried to emulate you in many ways, all of my life.  You read to us.  You sat down on the floor and played with us.  You used the power of Parenthood and created Special Days, all throughout the year.  Christmas is a holiday, sure, but it was YOU who created OUR Christmas.  I have tried to “do” holidays just as you did, all my married life.

I’m looking forward to Sunday, dear sisters and nieces and daughters and all of the other wonderful descriptions that come with all of you.  I might be the weirdo of the bunch – oh, it’s not like I don’t KNOW that!!!! -but I might also be the most sentimental of the bunch.

1.The phrase “working mother” is redundant. ~Jane Sellman

2. The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new. ~Rajneesh

3. I remember my mother’s prayers and they have always followed me. They have clung to me all my life. ~Abraham Lincoln

4. A mother is a person who, seeing there are only four pieces of pie for five people, promptly announces she never did care for pie. ~Tenneva Jordan

5. The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness. ~Honoré de Balzac

6. He is a poor son whose sonship does not make him desire to serve all men’s mothers. ~Harry Emerson Fosdick

7. An ounce of mother is worth a pound of clergy. ~Spanish Proverb

8. My mom is a neverending song in my heart of comfort, happiness, and being. I may sometimes forget the words but I always remember the tune. ~Graycie Harmon

9. Any mother could perform the jobs of several air traffic controllers with ease. ~Lisa Alther

10. Grown don’t mean nothing to a mother. A child is a child. They get bigger, older, but grown? What’s that suppose to mean? In my heart it don’t mean a thing. ~Toni Morrison, Beloved

11. The only mothers it is safe to forget on Mother’s Day are the good ones. ~Mignon McLaughlin

12. A mom forgives us all our faults, not to mention one or two we don’t even have. ~Robert Brault

13. One good mother is worth a hundred schoolmasters. ~George Herbert

14. Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children. ~William Makepeace Thackeray

15. Every beetle is a gazelle in the eyes of its mother. ~Moorish Proverb

16. All that I am or ever hope to be, I owe to my angel Mother. ~Abraham Lincoln

17. No one in the world can take the place of your mother. Right or wrong, from her viewpoint you are always right. She may scold you for little things, but never for the big ones. ~Harry Truman

18. God could not be everywhere, so He created mothers. ~Jewish Proverb

19. Biology is the least of what makes someone a mother. ~Oprah Winfrey

20. I regard no man as poor who has a godly mother. ~ Abraham Lincoln

21. The mother loves her child most divinely not when she surrounds him with comforts and anticipates his wants, but when she resolutely holds him to the highest standards and is content with nothing less than his best. ~ Hamilton Wright Mabie

22. The hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world. ~ William Ross Wallace

23. There never was a woman like her. She was gentle as a dove and brave as a lioness… The memory of my mother and her teachings were, after all, the only capital I had to start life with, and on that capital I have made my way. ~ Andrew Jackson

24. Who is getting more pleasure from this rocking, the baby or me? ~ Nancy Thayer

25. No matter how old a mother is, she watches her middle-aged children for signs of improvement. ~ Florida Scott-Maxwell

26. Sometimes when I look at all my children, I say to myself, ‘Lillian, you should have stayed a virgin.’” ~ Lillian Carter

27. And so our mothers and grandmothers have, more often than not anonymously, handed on the creative spark, the seed of the flower they themselves never hoped to see — or like a sealed letter they could not plainly read. ~ Alice Walker

28. Women do not have to sacrifice personhood if they are mothers. They do not have to sacrifice motherhood in order to be persons. Liberation was meant to expand women’s opportunities, not to limit them. The self-esteem that has been found in new pursuits can also be found in mothering. ~ Elaine Heffner

29. If you bungle raising your children, I don’t think whatever else you do well matters very much. ~ Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis

30. I looked on child rearing not only as a work of love and duty but as a profession that was fully as interesting and challenging as any honorable profession in the world and one that demanded the best I could bring to it. ~ Rose Kennedy

31. A mother is not a person to lean on, but a person to make leaning unnecessary. ~ Dorothy Canfield Fisher

32. She was the archetypal selfless mother: living only for her children, sheltering them from the consequences of their actions — and in the end doing them irreparable harm. ~ Marcia Muller

33. Spend at least one Mother’s Day with your respective mothers before you decide on marriage. If a man gives his mother a gift certificate for a flu shot, dump him. ~ Erma Bombeck

34. No one ever died from sleeping in an unmade bed. I have known mothers who remake the bed after their children do it because there’s a wrinkle in the spread or the blanket is on crooked. This is sick. ~ Erma Bombeck

35. Becoming a mother makes you the mother of all children. From now on each wounded, abandoned, frightened child is yours. You live in the suffering mothers of every race and creed and weep with them. You long to comfort all who are desolate. ~ Charlotte Gray

36. Giving kids clothes and food is one of thing, but it’s much more important to teach them that other people besides themselves are important and that the best thing they can do with their lives is to use them in the service of other people. ~ Dolores Huerta

37. Blaming mother is just a negative way of clinging to her still. ~ Nancy Friday

38. I love people. I love my family, my children . . . but inside myself is a place where I live all alone and that’s where you renew your springs that never dry up. ~ Pearl S. Buck

39. The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother. ~ Father Theodore Hesburgh

40. When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet. . . indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman. ~ Virginia Woolf

41. A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity, it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path. ~ Agatha Christie

42. You do not really understand something unless you can explain it to your grandmother. ~ Albert Einstein

43. If there were no schools to take the children away from home part of the time, the insane asylum would be filled with mothers. ~ Edgar Watson Howe

44. What the mother sings to the cradle goes all the way down to the coffin. ~ Henry Ward Beecher

45. My mother had a great deal of trouble with me, but I think she enjoyed it. ~ Mark Twain

46. Over the years I have learned that motherhood is much like an austere religious order, the joining of which obligates one to relinquish all claims to personal possessions. ~ Nancy Stahl

47. There never was a child so lovely but his mother was glad to get him asleep ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

48. At work, you think of the children you have left at home. At home, you think of the work you’ve left unfinished. Such a struggle is unleashed within yourself. Your heart is rent. ~ Golda Meir

49. A mother is she who can take the place of all others but whose place no one else can take. ~ Cardinal Mermilod

50. A mother’s yearning feels the presence of the cherished child even in the degraded man. ~ George Eliot

51. There are lots of things that you can brush under the carpet about yourself until you’re faced with somebody whose needs won’t be put off. ~ Angela Carter

52. Isidor Isaac Rabi’s mother used to ask him, upon his return from school each day, “Did you ask any good questions today, Isaac?” ~ Steve Chandler

53. Sometimes the poorest woman leaves her children the richest inheritance. ~ Ruth E. Renkel

54. Mother love is the fuel that enables a normal human being to do the impossible. ~ Marion C. Garretty

55. A mother is never cocky or proud, because she knows the school principal may call at any minute to report that her child has just driven a motorcycle through the gymnasium. ~ Mary Kay Blakeley

56. It would seem that something which means poverty, disorder and violence every single day should be avoided entirely, but the desire to beget children is a natural urge. ~ Phyllis Diller

57. Parents often talk about the younger generation as if they didn’t have anything to do with it. ~ Haim Ginott

58. If you want your children to turn out well, spend twice as much time with them, and half as much money. ~ Abigail Van Buren

59. Making a decision to have a child–it’s momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. ~ Elizabeth Stone

60. If you want your child to be brilliant, tell them fairy tales. If you want your child to be very brilliant, tell them even more fairy tales. ~ Albert Einstein

P.S.  What’s that she’s saying?  She needs to FIND HERSELF?  “Find herself” my Aunt Fanny.  Grow a pair, and be a parent to your child.  He’ll have pals his own age.  YOU can “find yourself” after your job is done.

P.P.S.  Does anybody else love it when, out in public, a child says “Mama?” and forty women instinctively turn their heads?

P.P.P.S. Grammar Queen that I am – terrifyingly so, in fact, so watch your step – I absolutely love this cartoon:

Oh wait, that wasn’t what I meant to say.

It’s that time again.  The morel mushrooms are here.

My husband still speaks wistfully of the day he and the kids visited his step-grandmother Margaret (she whom John Dillinger once tried to carjack. . . .) and she shared with them her unbelievable and, naturally, SECRET, morel mushroom patch.

Remember now, Hoosiers do not share this kind of secret with ANYBODY. People who will show a stranger their genital surgery scars will not share a morel mushroom location with their own mothers. Margaret took Tim and the kids across her fields and invited them to help themselves to the mushrooms.

They were everywhere. It was like a planted crop. You couldn’t take a step without stepping on morel mushrooms. They were all afraid to move, because around these parts, folks, you just don’t STEP on morel mushrooms if you can help it at all. They’re too valuable!!

How valuable are they? Well, if you can bear to part with yours, you can easily sell them for fifty bucks a pound. But it’s rare to find anyone who would part with them.

They came home fully loaded.

We once went to dinner at a friend’s home, and when we got there, she was preparing morel mushrooms as a last-minute addition to the meal. It seems that the night before, her husband had gone to their secret mushroom patch and had dumped two huge buckets of morels into their kitchen sink. All the guests were flabbergasted; usually, people don’t share their found mushrooms with others, either. To this day, none of us can remember what the main dish was at that meal. All anybody can remember is the mushrooms.

Except for me. Naturally, except for me. I am a freak, for I do not care all that much for morel mushrooms. I enjoy preparing them, but as for eating them. . . . well, let’s just say that everybody wants to sit by me, because I don’t eat mine and am happy to share.

And speaking of preparing them. . . . don’t let anybody tell you to use crushed saltines!!!

The proper Hoosier method is to mix together a little flour and a little cornmeal and a dash of salt, coat each mushroom, and fry in butter for just a few minutes. Remember to turn them.

Let them cool just enough to tolerate, and turn your crowd loose on them. There will never be enough.

Back in the middle school, my students used to bring breadsacks full of morel mushrooms and sell them to the teachers for twenty dollars apiece. The teachers got morel mushrooms for bargain rates, and the students got cash. It worked out pretty well for both parties concerned. I never bought any from a student; it wasn’t that I didn’t trust them, it was just that, well, I’d seen these same kids try to tell the difference between a noun and a verb all year, and pick wrong every time. There was something about believing that they could tell the difference between a mushroom and a toadstool and pick correctly every time, that just didn’t hit me quite right. I’m sure they knew; outdoor kids know these things. It was just a feeling I had.

As for the finding of them, I am probably the only Hoosier in the history of the state who not only doesn’t like to eat morel mushrooms, but also can’t find them even if they’re right there by the toe of my shoe. I can’t SEE them. I also tend to step on them, which makes me the kid who is picked last for anybody’s mushroom team. Usually, I just stay home and get ready to cook them when they’re brought home, whether I end up with a bowlful or a handful.

But if you live around these parts, around this time of year, around now, anywhere you might go, you won’t be able to escape the morel mushroom stories. In southern Indiana, we’d rather hear about the morel that got away, than about your boring old six-feet-long fish that got away.

And since I don’t care for them myself, that would be the “Queen’s We” that I’m using here.

I love to say that. It sounds so borderline.

Caesar: Who is it in the press that calls on me?
I hear a tongue shriller than all the music
Cry “Caesar!” Speak; Caesar is turn’d to hear.

Soothsayer: Beware the Ides of March.

Caesar: What man is that?

Brutus: A soothsayer bids you beware the Ides of March.

And what, pray tell, are the Ides of March, that Caesar needed to be warned against them?  Should we all beware the Ides of March?  What are Ides?

There is no reason for any of us to beware the Ides of March.  Or the Ides of September.  Or the Ides of February.  Etc.  Heck, my beautiful daughter was born on the Ides of June.

The Ides of any month are simply the 15th of any month.  The soothsayer was merely warning Caesar that something bad was going to happen on March 15.  Caesar had already had other warnings – one from his wife!  Caesar was very superstitious and took the warning seriously; however, this didn’t prevent him from leaving the house on March 15 anyway and walking out into the public forum.

. . . . where his best friends were waiting for him with daggers, whereupon they jumped him and stabbed him to death.  For his own good, and for the good of Rome, they believed.

Caesar was just too ambitious, they thought.  So, rather than risk his rise to power and popularity, they offed their best friend.

Caesar, Brutus, and Cassius – the three musketeers, the Bobbsey triplets, the inseparable pals.  Caesar trusted them; he loved them; they were his friends.

Which is why, when Caesar saw who was attacking him, he cried out, in disbelief, “Et tu, Brute?”  Which means, simply, “Even you, Brutus?”

But Brutus and Cassius, and the others, had realized that their pal Caesar was a little too cocky for Rome’s own good, and when even one’s best friend brags in public that he was as elite and cool as a god, one must do something to protect the nation.

“Beware the Ides of March.”  And now you know what that means, and why Caesar was warned to be careful of that day.

It was, like, you know, cuz the soothsayer somehow knew that Caesar’s dearest and most beloved friends had had enough of his bragging about his coolness and were going to take him down.  And they did.

But even when I was a kid and first read that scene, something inside of me SAW the expression on the man’s face when he realized that his best friend in all the world had stabbed him in the back.  It was a heartbreaker.

And now you have a perfect example of another expression.  Backstabber.  Stabbed in the back.

Shakespeare is so awesome; I loved the language even as an elementary student.  It’s exactly the same language that you’ll find in the King James Version of the Bible, which I also love.

Perhaps one of you can also answer a question that has puzzled Shakespeare fans for years:  Why in the world did the man bequeath his second-best bed to his wife?

I tend to agree with Jane of Lantern Hill, who was of the opinion that “Perhaps she liked it best.”

P.S.  Don’t be afraid of the language.  Relax, and try to see the poetry and the amazing graphics in Shakespeare’s witty turn of phrase.  It’ll knock your socks off, if you let it.

========

Mamacita says:  Okay, so, today’s what, the 15th?  It’s time for another politically incorrect rant!  Be warned, oh overly-sensitive types born without the ability to discern. . . .

I am a Christmas fanatic. I live for this season. I LOVE this time of year, the anticipatory days, the buildup, the baking, the decorating, the smiling faces, the wreaths, the trees, the twinkling lights that make the whole neighborhood look like the starry sky, the making of lists, the checking of them twice, the looking FORWARD, the happiness, the glow, the very atmosphere of the world.

Well, of the fun world, anyway, the nice world, the world of generous people who care; the grinches and grumps of the world don’t count. I believe in the TRUE meaning of Christmas, but if you don’t, that’s your business. I do think even non-believers could get into the SEASON, if not the REASON, and have a lot of fun with it, and most of them do and are glad of it. But every party needs a pooper, that’s why we invited you. . . . . so sit in the corner and complain and try to ruin it for the majority of the nation, go ahead, whine away, oh boo hoo your rights are being trampled because other people (who constitute a majority, by the way) are all happy and singing. . . oh, grow up and look around, you loser!!! Most of us are happier than usual, and thinking of others and trying to make our personal spaces a little prettier, and thinking generous thoughts for a change, and trying to help others in the coldest time of the year, and you’re picketing stores and throwing people’s innocent good will back in their faces and writing editorials demanding your scroogeish rights and doing your best to put a damper on it all.

Shame on you.

And, shame again. Lighten up. Embrace the emotional impact, if you don’t have it in you to embrace any other aspect of it. It’s a religious thing, yes, but nobody has a loaded gun to your right cheek demanding that you surrender all your own beliefs.  But it’s also a cultural thing, and a seasonal thing, and an emotional thing, and a love thing, and a caring thing, and a sharing thing, and it makes people happy when they participate, and if you choose not to participate in any part of it, at least shut up about it so you don’t drag others down with you. You have your rights? Yes, you do. And so do the rest of us, and that’s something you don’t seem to wish to acknowledge in any way because you’re too busy trying to get an entire culture to shut down and do things your way. It’s not going to happen, Scrooge. If you don’t like it, move away.

Yes. Move away. You know, to some OTHER country where you’re allowed to worship, behave, believe, eat, drink, etc, exactly as you please. . . . . oops. Um, wait a second. IS there another country where you’re allowed to do those things? Besides this one that you spend all your time putting down?

I don’t THINK so.

Therefore, if you intend to stay here, please understand something: you have your rights, and so does everyone else. You choose to be joyless at this time of year, others choose to be joyful. Neither of us is going to change. You choose to hug your personal beliefs close and honestly, I’ve never heard you say anything positive at this time of year so I’m not altogether sure what your beliefs ARE, if indeed you have any goals except to stifle everyone else, but whatever they are, you’ve a right to them.  Please collect your wits about you for a moment and discern that everyone else has rights, too.  There are more of us than of you. Stay in your dark cheerless house if you don’t want to see happy sharing singing people.

Sit there in your dark hole and practice saying things like “Bah, humbug,” and “My RIGHTS are being obstructed!!!! Oh WAHHHHH”  “How DARE that old lady smile at me and give my child a candy cane!” “My neighbors all have wreaths and I am SOOOO OFFENDED!”  “A clerk wished me a Merry Christmas?  I’ll SUE!”  Stuff like that. Be sure your windows are open so the neighbors can hear you. Put a sign on your door, too, to warn people away lest a neighbor bring you a cake or a box of cookies – more signs that your rights are being disrespected.

What’s the matter, you can’t enjoy someone else’s holiday? Okay, then you should be the one who volunteers to work the Christmas shifts for people. It doesn’t mean anything to you, right? You’ll get more money, and that’s important to you, right? Then why aren’t you first in line for that? It would be a wonderful gift for a father or mother who would love to be home with their kids for Christmas. . . .but then, you don’t give gifts, do you, so that’s out. And asking you to work when others don’t would be yet another manisfestation of your rights being trampled.

Honestly. I hope you are in therapy.

But I digress. It’s the 15th of December, and I haven’t done any shopping*  yet. My kids are going to have some kind of Christmas this year, and I don’t care if Tim and I don’t eat for a month afterwards. We don’t need to be eating, anyway, gad.

So, to the majority of the world, a very Merry Christmas. To the rest of you, carry on, and be careful lest you accidently eat a cookie or hear a song or see some twinkling lights; it might scar you for life.  Watch out for smiling happy people, too, lest you be subjected to good wishes.

It’s going to be a very lean Christmas, but no power, principality, or grumpy old fart in the universe can keep it from being merry!

*And, by “going shopping,” what I’m really saying is, “I’m checking out the bargains online.”  It’s cold outside.

P.S.  By the way, I LOVE IT when people with different beliefs share.  Sadly, they seldom seem to.  Around these parts, such people mostly seem to get off on whining.

Empty Nest Syndrome. ENS. Certifiable in all fifty states, and worse every day.

Mamacita says so.

I love you, my sweet babies.