Who’s the real ‘poor thing’?

Patt, a good friend, wanted my feedback and feeble professional guidance on a writing project that she’s working on. She sent the pages with a sticky note attached that said, “Give me your Mama treatment. Be brutally honest.”

Johnny, a longtime friend who can say whatever he wants to me with complete confidence in our friendship, called one day and said, “Now, I want to tell you something. You need to lay off of your poor mama. You’re too rough on her.”

Bobby, who happens to be Johnny’s brother, called to say, “I tell you what, you never give your mama a break, do you?”

Now, I never knew Johnny and Bobby’s mama but I have been told often how sweet and humble she was. I am quite certain that she never told her boys how bad their hair looked or ragged on them about their clothes, particularly the length of their skirts or their pants, for that matter.

“You’re too hard on your mama,” opined Gurley, my daddy’s favorite cousin. I wrinkled my nose in response. After all, he has seen my mama be difficult.

“You know she can be challenging,” I protested.
He sidestepped the question. “She’s your mama. You need to be more respectful.”

Defenders of my mama are rising up from far and near, protesting for motherhood in general and her in particular. When strangers discover who she is, women will grab Mama in a big bear hug and say, “Oh, you dear thing! I read about you every week.”

For the life of me, I don’t understand how my mama has become the “poor thing” in all of this. Are these zealous defenders of her not reading the bumps, bruises and verbal smacks she gives to me? I really think that I am the “poor thing” in all of this, not my mama. I am the one who struggles to keep my self-esteem pieced together from her repeated clever digs.

For instance, I asked Mama one day if she had read my most recent column.

She nodded wordlessly.

“What was it about?” I asked. I learned this trick from daddy who would always ask us kids at the Sunday dinner table what that morning’s sermon had been about. My brother and I were never able to answer.

She shrugged. “I don’t remember.” She paused for a beat. “It wasn’t that interesting.”
See what I mean?

But lest you think everyone is against me, think again. There are plenty of women out there who struggle with the same kind of maternal needling. While Mama has found a legion of defenders, I have discovered an undeniable sisterhood.

“Are we sisters?” Strangers will often ask. “Because, I swear to you, I think we have the same mama!”