Siblings – A Mother’s bane

Whilst pondering the folly of crossing a mother on the warpath, or pre-warpath for that matter (not that there’s a big difference for the initiated offspring of harassed mothers everywhere), I came upon three conclusions:

1.       Idiot, don’t do it, don’t even THINK about it

2.       Idiot, if you were stupidly brave enough to try, run, FAST

3.       Idiot, if point 2 or point 3 don’t work, plead stupidity, possibly retardation where viable (always ensuring you never, EVER, implicate your mother as the cause of the mild retardation)

The event that triggered above musings was a quite traumatic exchange with mother dearest a while back. Any thought of beating a hasty retreat before any kind of confrontation was crushed once hearing the tone of Mom’s voice. Suffice it to say, the language used by both parties during this interaction would’ve be frowned upon by sailors. The conversation fairly lacklustre at the start with gems such as, “How’s the weather your side” and “How’s Grandpa’s hemorrhoids” it became increasingly one-sided as conversation progressed. Eventually escalating into a situation with me holding the receiver a metre away from my already punished ear, and Mom rather vocally reliving a story featuring a passed out younger sibling (brother in this story’s context, insert your own for easy reference) being found in his/her *you get the point by now* car the morning after he’d popped out for a quick, note the word ‘quick’, drink with friends. Flashbacks close to what I’m sure veterans of Vietnam experience fleetingly whoosh by, been there, done that, got the tongue lashing and head bashing from Mom. Then a new thought occurs; pure, exquisite wonderful joy. 

Black sheep no longer I naively think, I voice my honest and less than unbiased opinion that younger brother should be punished, severely. How dare he? My poor mother, sickeningly worried about younger brother, his whereabouts unknown and for all we know he may be in Pollsmoor locked up and entertaining our local 28’s (for those not in the know, go check out the link, yes, seriously; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pollsmoor_Prison). Punished to the full extent of my mother’s wrath, he should be locked out, car keys taken away, shit; keelhaul him if you have to. (Well maybe not the last one, I mean that seems a tad harsh and he hasn’t been a bad brother in any sense of the word). Following my tirade, and yes, exasperation worked into this ‘not so subtle’ little charade to bring the point home, I recall the subsequent piece of wonderful diatribe coming from my end of the phone…(receiver unconsciously brought back to an inch of my ear –stupid me, I know)

“Are you insane (insert poor underperforming older sibling’s name here), he’s my youngest son, how dare you insinuate that I could possibly be such a bad mother as to lock him out. In all honesty I’m deeply disappointed in you. Your younger brother has always been a kind and nurturing boy, you know he’s sensitive. I think I’ll hang up now before I say something I regret.” 

Or something to that effect, I forget the details. 

What the hell just happened? Wasn’t I the good son only a few moments ago?