Mothers across the country enjoyed flowers on the table or perhaps a card propped up on a nightstand Sunday morning. Such simple things help deliver our appreciation and thanks for essential elements needed to shape who we’ve become. The task wasn’t always easy for my mother. At times, I handed her predicaments that required home nursing, thoughtfulness, or upon occasion, corporal punishment.

There has never been any explanation why ear-aches with elevated temperatures were a frequent experience during my elementary school years. Despite being no stranger to a shot in the rump at the doctor’s office from time to time, Mother’s preferred remedy for earaches was for me to lay on the couch with the aching ear atop a hot water bottle. Relief sometimes arrived after bursting of the eardrum and drainage of the infection – a pathetic excuse floated now for not hearing Rita’s request to take out the trash or empty the dishwasher. However, a little time on the hot water bottle back then did bring one distinct benefit — skipping school.

Learning Mom tolerated truancy when my temperature exceeded 101 degrees, I held the thermometer under the bathroom faucet or lit a match to enhance the reading with hope of skipping more school. Mom didn’t buy it when the thermometer topped out at 108 degrees. She didn’t say much. Instead, she simply held her palm across my forehead before marching me out the door and off to school.

It might have been in the spring in 1958 when Mother picked me up after school following a recess discussion among third grade classmates that revealed the true identity of Santa Claus. Jumping into the car, I needed reassurance. “Mom, others in class said that Santa is really our parents. Is that true?” The response wasn’t what I’d hoped for. I hesitated only briefly over her one-word answer and the potential effect it might have the following December. “Don’t worry, Mom,” I countered, “I’m sure I’ll forget about that before next Christmas comes.” As things turned out, I didn’t forget. Neither did she.

That same year my sister, Elaine, was five years older and taller than me. While playing with neighbor kids in their backyard one summer evening, she and others were reaching up to grab hold of clothesline wires. Not wanting to be left out, I jumped up and grabbed one too. Before gravity returned my feet to the ground, the wire broke. “I’m telling Mom,” Elaine exclaimed, then took off running toward our house.

Although she was taller, I was faster and made it inside the back door first, then locked it behind me. I went straight to my room. Considering the potential outcome, I pulled a book out from under the bed with Mr. Magoo’s caricature on the cover, slipped it inside the seat of my pants for protection, then waited. When Mother arrived, my lame excuse that “all the other kids were doing it” carried no weight. Mom took hold of one arm to turn me a little before delivering a swat to the submerged Mr. Magoo. The second swat found a thigh. Although it didn’t hurt, I tried my best to act like it did — fearing further swattage was on its way. As best I recall, this was the only time Mother resorted to corporal punishment at our house. I wish I would have asked her during later years if she remembered the pathetic excuse I floated, the Magoo-in-the-pants protection I attempted and how difficult it was not to laugh.

In retirement, it is not unusual for us to think fondly of mothers on their special day or other times. The way Mother handled the torment I brought her helped shape my behavior and attitude as an adult. Unfortunately, Mom failed to teach me how to protect myself from the punishment Rita dishes out when I mess up. She refers to it as her “retail therapy.”