My personal guess would be “I love you, Mom, but...”
I see you nodding in recognition. Moms give us life. They nurture us. They see us through times of injury and illness. They inspire us with a slice of their own indomitable spirit. But mothers also know how to push all our buttons and drive us crazy.
The stories about motherly micro-management of wearing clean underwear for ambulance rides, digesting lunch before swimming, jumping off a bridge, etc. are legendary. I’m sure when witches were being burned at the stake, there was a mother admonishing her hapless daughter, “Don’t forget to wear your sweater!”
We put up with the micro-management because the self-sacrifice of mothers makes us feel guilty. (“Go on to your rock concert with your friends. I have the symphony of your father’s snoring to keep me company. One two three. Layla, you’ve got me on my knees, Layla.”)
A good mother is there with time, money, and unconditional love. You know your mom would gladly give you the shirt off her back, her last dollar, or even a transplant organ. (“Thanks, Ma, but the offer of an ovary is creeping me out. Signed, your son, Johnny.”)
Of course mothers do have their differences. Some can’t wait to experience “empty nest syndrome.” My own mother, on the other hand, has always had problems cutting the apron strings for me and my brother. I’m glad that I live only 10 minutes from my mother’s house and have given her a daughter-in-law and grandson that she can be proud of, but I think the original plan was for me to move next door, work from home, and reproduce by splitting in half.
My mother’s reminiscences are just a little too wistful. I’ve lost track of how many times she has used the phrase “you were just babies” when recounting some anecdote. My brother and I were allegedly just babies when we started to school, started to shave, got a driver’s license, etc. I vaguely recall that when I was younger her stories went more like “I remember when you took your first step - you were just an embryo.”
My mother still is obsessed with straightening my collar, but at least she no longer makes public proclamations about how much crotch room I have in my new pants. On the other hand, she still has a U.S. Census to look forward to in a couple of years. (“Wait - you didn’t ask a single question about how old Danny and Dwight were when they were weaned!”)
Mom still pouts, moans, worries, and caterwauls any time I eat out, venture out to the mall, or make a day trip to visit my in-laws. I think my curfew was 1978.
When we do drag her out to a restaurant, her critique alternates between “You can eat that dish at home” and “Why did you order that? You never eat that at home.
Sadly, there’s lot of irony in our relationship. After all those teenage years of my mother criticizing my posture, she’s the one who spent years treating calcium supplements like the devil’s brew.
I love you, Mom; but my editor loves short columns, so the mushy stuff will have to wait. In the meantime, have a happy Mother’s Day.

Danny welcomes email responses at tyreetyrades@aol.com and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”