The 'Hood

 Sure I miss my old stomping grounds, but the "hood" to which I refer is not where my neighbors lived, but rather the esteemed Hood of the Mother. 

I have not participated actively in this institution, having been relegated by convention to the Hood of the Father, but I have definitely observed and appreciated all that goes on across the fence. 

On this, the second Day of the Mother I am experiencing as an orphan, I am feeling sad and out of sorts. As mentioned here on many occasions, I took great stock in the conversations I had with my mother over the course of the years we spent together. I fully expect that we might have gone right on into eternity talking about things important and trivial had we not been interrupted.

Which is where I find myself currently wondering how I can make this apology: In my line of work, I see my share of distraught mothers. Disappointed primary caregivers who cannot fathom how their children have come to the choices and paths for which they have been called into school. Voices are raised. Tears flow. And the question remains. "How could this have happened?"

I made my mother cry. On more than one occasion. Several, in fact. These were primarily in my teens and early twenties when I felt compelled to strain against the reins that existed primarily in my own mind, not in the authority held by my parents. I was a teenager, and therefore I felt the need to stir things up around the house. As if it were my job. 

I reached the end of the rope when I took advantage of my mother's kind offer of a trip to Phoenix after the video store I managed closed around me. Instead of using the opportunity to relax and visit a friend, I turned it into a Lost Weekend that found me flirting with the frayed ends of my mother's patience with me. 

The good news is that somewhere just before impact, I was able to pull up and keep from destroying the airship of our relationship, but defining the moment of just before all the air escaped. 

My mother forgave me. She lived long enough to see me turn my life around. She was there to hold her newborn grandson. We stayed in touch well enough for those on the outside looking in to wonder if I wasn't showering my mother with too much attention. 

Too much? 

Never enough. And yes, I am sensitive to the fact that it was Norman Bates who said, "A boy's best friend is his mother." 

My mother would have laughed at that.