MOMMARAMA

It's All In The Delivery

The last time I actually went to my parents for answers, I was probably eight. Or if I was older than that, it probably had to do with math.

Now, well beyond the "know it all" teen years, and the "conquer the world" twenties, I find myself once again turning to them for their unique wisdom and perspective.

My mother, unfortunately, is unavailable for handy questioning, and therefore I've turned to the obvious runner-up: my father. (Not as strong an option, considering male aptitude for memorizing life's trivial non-sports-related details.)

Questions like "How much weight did Mom gain when she was pregnant? or "What time of day was I born?" are completely lost on him. My father always looks a bit queasy when I bring up these subjects. "Well, she had three children, altogether, and I'm pretty sure you were one of them…"

Thanks. That was helpful.

Not that it's necessarily a 70's era Dad's job to keep tabs on every detail of his children's lives, but it's amazing how much he missed considering he was home every evening in time for dinner. ("Pass the food CLOCKWISE!")

Dad provided. He was present. He came down on us hard when we did stuff like cover the neighbors' house with toilet paper. In these ways, and more, he fulfilled his paternal duties. So I'm inclined to cut him some slack.

Things a Dad is allowed to miss:

Kids food preferences and non-lethal allergies

Names of children's friends

Dress rehearsals

Things a Dad can be legitimately penalized for forgetting:

Full names of all biological and adopted children (unless confused with his other children)

Kid's Birth MONTH (I think I'm being entirely generous here)

Names of children's spouses

Hey - I'm happy to respect the parental brainwash syndrome: The confusing of kids and jumbling of their vital statistics. Even I (a non-male parent) occasionally mix up my children's names - usually in direct proportion to how fast they're moving at the time.

But if Dad starts talking to me about my football exploits, I'm going to have to call the authorities.

His "fogginess" is not due to any of those elderly ailments (as luck would have it, he's in strapping good health.) He's simply afflicted with that typical male lack of sensibility on issues not related to the slaying of large carnivores.

Plainly put: Moms are just much more useful vessels of parental minutiae.

Things that Moms are allowed to forget:

Nothing

"Mom, remember that blouse I used to wear in 4^th grade?" I'd ask.

"The one with the puckery cotton material and mother-of-pearl buttons that you ironed, and made a scorch mark on the back of the left sleeve?" she would counter.

"Mom, what was my first grade teacher's name?"

"Mrs. Greene. You probably wiped it from your memory after you threw up on her that day you tried Mexican food for the first time."

Grandmothers are sometimes an acceptable alternative treasure trove of information. Until they score upwards of 12 grandkids, in which case you only have about 3.2 percent accuracy (and who can blame them? Kits, cats, sacks, wives, how many were going to St. Ives?)

At this point in my life, I'm feeling an intense need for a reliable source of these useless tidbits of information. A window into my past.

I've reached my decade of "embracing humility" - I need that kind of embarrassment. I need to know what I'm working with.

Yes, it's all about me. (Humble, middle aged me.)

I've decided: my Dad just needs to become a convincing liar.

If, when asked, "What time of day was I born?" he answered with an authoritative "8:52 AM!" I would be satisfied, and be able to move on with my life. Instead I have all these nagging gaps and questions and uncertainties.

Not only could Mom remember practically anything, when she couldn't (which never happened of course), she could lie like a pro!

All parents should have this innate knowledge: The truth of the input isn't nearly as important as its conviction. Even when (in my day) I rolled my eyes at it. And even when (in her day) Mom was lying through her teeth.

It's all in the delivery.