My mother once chased me into the street waving a butcher's knife.

I'm going to explain that in a bit, and yes it really is true. It makes a really great "keep 'em reading" opening sentence for a Mother's Day post, don't you think?

This is Mother's Day weekend, and I've been inspired by Jerry to write something about my mom. A number of my favorite bloggers have written some very nice entries about their mothers over the years. My favorite has to be Rhodester, who's post about his mom won't load for me for some reason, but maybe you'll have better luck. It's the one at the top of the list.

I started out with the purest of intentions. I'd write something heartfelt and honest about all of the struggles and hard work my mom had to put in to raise my sister and me. Have you ever seen the movie Primary Colors? There's a great scene about half an hour into that movie wherein the Bill Clinton-inspired character and his top aids, all Southern boys, are sitting around at the end of a long dinner and they've all had quite a bit to drink. One of them tells an anecdote about how hard his mother worked when he was young. Another tops him with an anecdote about how much his mama loves the Lord. The next one talks about how his mama always taught him to do what's right. By the time they've made it around the table they're all sobbing and passionate. "Oh, great," observes the Hillary Clinton-inspired character off to the side, "they've gotten off on a mama-thon."

Southern boys really are like that. Get us started on our mamas and we'll absolutely grind you into the ground. And it does become competitive. My mama worked harder than your mama. Oh, yeah? Well, my mama prayed harder than your mama. Really? Well my mama made the best damned baked macaroni and cheese in the world and I'll whup any man who says different. Oh, yeah?

You get the idea. We're passionate and we love our moms, even if we ain't that bright.

I wanted to pen a quick tribute to my mother by recording a brief list of her accomplishments and some examples of what a saint she is, but when I sat down and started thinking about mama-stories, that butcher's knife tale was the first thing that came to mind.

Here's the deal:

I was an awful kid. Really, really bad. I was just heinous. When I look back over my childhood, I have no idea how my mother kept from killing me. On at least one instance, she did come close to it.

I was really awful. I wouldn't do anything I was told to do without a federal act and I would sass and put up a fight about everything. One of my favorite things to do (and I'm not proud of this) was this: after I'd finally been worn down and done whatever chore I was asked to do, I'd go into whatever room my mom was in and say something smart-allecky... and then I'd run away before mom could get her hands on me.

Just thinking about it makes you want to thrash the kid I was, doesn't it? I know I'd like to go back in time and kick my little ass. I know I deserved it.

Anyway, on this one particular instance, after I'd finally done whatever I'd been asked to do, I'd gone into the kitchen where mom was washing dishes (by hand) and said some smart-allecky thing... and then, when mom turned around to give me a swat on the behind, I'd run away, as usual. Only this time when I got out of the kitchen I heard footsteps that indicted that mom was right behind me. Oh, yes. This time she was going to get hold of me and turn my behind bright red.

OH, CRAP!

So I took off down the steps to the front door, fully intending to dart out into the yard if she came down the steps after me. I looked behind me and saw that, yes indeed, she was coming after me... and I had never seen such a look of intense concentration on her face before. This time, she really was going to thrash me good. And I knew that there was nothing I could do about it... and what made it worse was that I knew I deserved it.

I mentioned she'd been washing dishes by hand only a second before this happened, right?

When mom turned around to come after me, she was apparently washing the butcher's knife... and she still had it in her soap-suds covered hand.

Years later, talking about the incident and laughing about it, mom told me that she didn't realize she hadn't put the butcher's knife down yet at the time. All she was thinking about was whatever horrible thing I'd said and how she was absolutely sick and tired of my smart mouth.

So down the steps she came, and out into the front yard I ran.

Imagine the look on the neighbors' faces as a screaming nine year old came flying out the front door, followed in hot pursuit by an absolutely livid grown woman waving a butcher's knife. I'm sure that each of our neighbors thought that they'd get the chance to be on the news that night, saying stuff like "They always seemed like nice people, we never thought anything like this would happen."

I can't remember how things were resolved that day. I do remember that I didn't come home until waaaaaayyy late into the evening. I am glad to report that mom didn't kill me, even though I deserved it. I'm also glad to report that I hadn't caused any blood vessels in her head to burst.

I'm also glad to report that I didn't stay an awful kid. At least I don't think I did. Mom frequently tells me these days that she's proud of the way I turned out, so I guess some of what she was trying to teach me finally sunk in.

My mother is in her sixties now and I'm closing in on forty. Mom is a registered nurse and she works at the hospital that's about a mile from where I live. My mama has a hard time sitting on a chair because she doesn't have a behind. She doesn't have a behind because she worked it off putting herself through college to get her nursing degree and raising my sister and myself. Mom is a heck of a good nurse. Everyone I meet, when they find out who my mom is, has a story to tell me about the time they were in the hospital, or the time their relative was in intensive care, and how good my mother was to them. I just nod and smile and thank them for sharing the story with me.

When, in my twenties I came home with a pregnant girlfriend and announced my intentions to marry her and adopt her son, mom took her in like one of her own. Mom has doted over my son ever since the day he was born, and the issue of "adoption" has never crossed her mind. In fact, if you ever said anything about the issue that didn't sit right with mom... well, just make sure she ain't washing the dishes at the time.

My mom has also treated my two step-kids by my second wife like they're her own, too. Mom doesn't consider these kinds of issues. She just loves people.

My mom really is a saint; and, no, I don't think she'd have really killed me that day. She really is a devoutly religious person, and she really is one of the hardest workers I've ever known. She instilled in me and my sister a fear of God and a sense of responsibility that eventually got through my thick head. I don't know how she did it.

And, by the way, my mama does make the best baked macaroni and cheese in the world.

I wouldn't challenge me on that if I were you.