Jackson Free Press

It's true that all those horrible things you did to your mother will come back to haunt you. I hate it as much as you, believe me. There is nothing more obnoxious than a sanctimonious mother telling a daughter, or son, all the horrible things said mother endured for her child and how all those things will very soon come to pass as some type of divine, maternal retribution to tell the daughter, or son, "I told you so!"

Like that time you made your sister drink beer. Or the time you threw all those Coke bottles on the main drive in the neighborhood just to hear the glass shatter. Or that time you called your next-door neighbor and sang, "Shake, shake, shake. Shake, shake, shake. Shake your booty." Of course I never did things such as that, but if I had, I'm sure my mother was sore ashamed. So ashamed, in fact, that no punishment she decreed could quite meet the level of embarrassment she felt. These are the times when only, "Just wait until you have children of your own!" could assuage such broken pride.

Much to the glee of my very own mother, I did go out and procreate. And damned if I didn't procreate one of the most "spirited" children to ever branch our family tree.

Oh he's cute, all right, which makes his "spirit" even more difficult to endure. He's got his daddy's blonde hair, blue eyes and charm, with a grin that can cut ice. Mix that with momma's brains, love of life and sense of humor, and he is just what my very own momma would have God create to teach me a lesson. We call him Monkey.

Monkey is the kid who will, and did, stick a roly-poly in his ear to make the girls squeal. He might also be the type who tells a teacher that his daddy sells drugs but "it's OK, they are good ones!"

He was sent home from school the very first time when he was only 4. I could tell Ms. Bobby was quite perturbed when I picked up the phone. Bless Ms. Bobby's heart, I truly meant to warn her, but I was afraid we'd never find adequate child care if she knew the spirit that is Monkey.

"Now I don't normally like to call parents when we have discipline problems, but we have a very special situation here, Ms. Emily, and I must tell you that we find this behavior unacceptable at this facility. Now we know Monkey is new to our center, but again, I must emphasize that this behavior will not be tolerated."

Did he hit someone? Did he kiss a girl? "Ms. Emily, YOUR son made tinkle outside."

Ohhhh? That's all? Well, I do apologize, Ms. Bobby, but we went camping last week, and we did in fact encourage him to take advantage of nature's facilities. We will most certainly speak to him.

"NO, MS. EMILY. You must come get him NOW. This is the third tinkle incident today, and I must protect the other children. He made tinkle at the pool. He made tinkle in the corner of the playground. He seems to enjoy the attention he has gained from these shenanigans. In fact, he climbed the slide this afternoon, pulled down his pants, then proceeded to yell, 'Hey everybody! WATCH THIS!' and he made tinkle on the slide. Then he took a bow and encouraged applause."

Gulp. Now that is a special situation. Not only has my child dropped his pants in front of God and everybody, but I also have to go tell my brand-new boss, vice president that he is, that I must leave a staff meeting because my son "made tinkle" outside. Are you happy now, Mother? I get to say tinkle to a room full of executives!

I have learned that no matter the embarrassment or the inconvenience or the feelings of parental failure that accompany these moments of "Monkey Spirit," I know that my momma wanted me to get a bit more than shame out of these life moments. She wanted me to even get more than a good giggle in hindsight.

Now I know the love she must have for me. It's hard defending my son's "spirit," but who else could do it so passionately? No matter what that child sticks in any orifice and no matter where he "makes tinkle" in this life, I know that the only thing bigger than Monkey's capacity for mischief is his heart. He's brilliant, he's talented, and I'll bet all my cards on that little man succeeding in this big world.

I want to thank my mom and dad for placing that same bet on me when I was a "daydreamer," when I wrote stories in class instead of those damned multiplication tables, when I spent entire summer days with a book and a comfy chair and when they loved me through all my mistakes.

Monkey did not fall far from the tree.

JFP columnist Emily Braden is a free-lance writer and mom who lives in Rankin County with her son Patrick and her dog Zeke.