Yore Mama

If you really want to start something on our playground, those are the words that will start your assault. Most of the time, the rest of the sentence won't even be heard, just the introduction is enough. That is because even in our disaffected, embittered, cynical world, some things are sacred. Or at least they give that appearance. It doesn't matter what the reality of the situation may be. If you mess with somebody's mother, you're going to get fists or tears or a combination of both.
That's usually about the time that I show up, separating the warring factions, desperate to bring peace to the yard. The first thing I ask when I come on a situation that involves mothers I learned from watching "Roadhouse" with Patrick Swayze, God rest his soul. I ask the offended party if the numbskull on the other side even knows the mother in question. After a few sputtering, huffing moments, the response comes back, "No." Then I suggest that the only one on the playground equipped to make any judgements is the one who knows them best.
"Does she pick you up from school?"
"Yeah."
"Does she take care of you when you're sick?"
"Yeah."
"Does she make sure you get fed?"
"Yeah."
The the kicker: "Do you love your mother?"
Long pause. "Yeah."
Now I turn and face the tormentor. "Do you love your mother?"
Long pause. "Yeah."
"I'm pretty sure she'd be unhappy with you for talking about somebody else's mom."
"Yeah."
From there it's a short hop to the apologies, and it generally doesn't come up again, since most tough guys don't want to talk about how much they love their mothers.
I love my mom. She took care of me when I was sick and made sure that I was fed. My son loves his mother. She walks with him to school and gets him where he needs to go. That's what mothers do. So don't say nothin' about my mama.