Don’t Mess with My Mom

When I was a kid, I thought my mom was pretty cool. It wasn’t because she prepared dinners every night, packed our lunches every weekday, kept us in clean clothes and shoes that always fit, washed our sheets, cleaned our messes, or anything like that.

No, it wasn’t any of these things that made my mom cool.

She was cool because, with righteous indignation, my mom defended the honor of her five children, whether it was justified or not.

—   —   —

I’m about ten years old. My brother Jeff is nine. It’s warm outside and we’re in the backyard playing.

The Arse family (name changed to serve as an appropriate descriptor and to protect myself from allegations of defamation), lives catty-corner behind us. They have three boys, all of them rude, crude and mean. The middle boy, Jim, probably the meanest of the bunch, is my sister Julie’s age, fourteen. The oldest Arse boy, John, is probably a junior or senior in high school. None of the Arse boys go to the same school that we do. Thank goodness.

The Arse’s backyard is surrounded with a chain link fence and tall, cypress-like evergreens mask their yard from our view.

Ever since the Arse family moved in, they’ve proven themselves to be loud-mouthed bullies. They’re mean to their pets and the boys are often screaming profanities that the whole neighborhood can hear. My siblings and I try to steer clear of them.

Jeff and I are minding our own business when we hear a gunshot and something falls from the sky, landing a few feet away from us. We step over to investigate. It’s a bird. A now dead bird. One of the Arse boys just killed another one.

I am both sad and angry. Sad for the bird and angry at our hateful neighbors. How dare they keep killing innocent birds! Why did their parents ever give their kids a BB-gun? They must know how awful their sons are. Why wouldn’t they recognize how dangerous it would be to put a weapon in their sons’ wretched little hands?

We can hear one of the boys hooting in celebration after hitting his target. I want to cry. Probably all the victim’s bird friends and family saw him get shot and fall to the ground. I hope they know that as long as the Arse family lives here, they’re all in danger.

Emboldened by the raucous laughter from the Arse’s backyard, Jeffrey and I, as though we’ve discussed before what we would do in such a circumstance, race to the outdoor faucet below my parents’ bedroom window. A hose is already hooked up. A sprinkler is attached to the other end of the hose and while one of us scrambles to unwind it, the other is poised to turn on the water. When the water begins flowing, we both stretch the hose as far as it will go and as close to the Arse yard as we can get it.

Thus armed, we aim the end of the hose over the evergreens that separate our yard from the Arse yard, placing our thumbs over the hose opening to build water pressure so the spray will go further and higher. And we spray. And we spray. And we spray. We are spraying not just for the dead bird in our yard right now, but for all the birds in the neighborhood – both the dead victims of the Arse boys and those that are alive but now live with the threat of being shot dead. We spray because we too are afraid of the Arse boys and we’re tired of living next to such a wild and mean family. We are David. We are spraying our Goliath.

Our bravado quickly fades as John, the oldest Arse boy, starts screaming. “Goddamn you kids!”

Jeff and I exchange mutual smirks instead of screaming “Bullseye” which we know will further antagonize our neighbor. We stop spraying.

Our smirks disappear as the ranting continues. “You motherfuckers! I’m going to kill you! I’m going to tell your mom what you’ve done! Goddamnit!”

Jeff and I look at each other wild eyed as we realize what we’ve done. We’ve ticked off someone we know to be a murderer. A bird killer.

We hustle to turn off the hose and run around our house to the garage.

What should we do? What should we do? We are both scared to death. Do we tell Mom and risk getting in trouble for spraying the hose or do we wait and let Arse-boy tell her?

We run into the house and tell Mom that John Arse is coming over to kill us because we sprayed him with a hose after he killed another bird with his BB-gun. She hears us out and then instructs us to go back outside and to let her know if and when the Arse boy shows up. She tells us not to worry because she doesn’t think he’ll come.

Jeff and I go back to the garage to sweat bullets as we anxiously await John’s arrival.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Time couldn’t move any more slowly.

And here he comes, walking up the street, onto our driveway. He’s soaking wet. A little too wet, if you ask me. I think he sprayed himself so he could get more sympathy from my mom. Creep.

He stops at the garage door. “I want to talk to your mom,” he says. He has no idea we’ve already briefed her. He thinks we’re scared he’ll be the one to spill the beans.

I open the screen door, separating the garage to the utility room (nowadays called a laundry or mud room). “Mom!” I call. “He’s here!”

That had to cause Arse-boy some concern. He’s here instead of John’s here.

Arse-boy doesn’t address my mom as “Mrs. Cavendish” like any other self-respecting tattletale would, and I’m hopeful that he doesn’t know our last name.

My mom comes into the garage and asks, “Can I help you?”

“Yes. I live catty-corner behind you and I’ve come here to tell you that your kids sprayed me with your hose. Look at me. I’m sopping wet.”

My mom remains silent, as though assuming there must be more to the story.

“And I think they should be punished,” he finishes.

“Why would they have sprayed you with our hose?” She asks.

“I have no idea,” Arse-boy professes and I think I detect an arrogant lift of his chin.

“Jill and Jeff tell me you’ve been shooting birds with your BB-gun.”

“I’m just telling you that your kids should not be spraying their neighbors with a hose.”

“Well, John, is it? I think it’s very odd for a boy as old as you to come to my house to tattle on a couple of little kids. You should be embarrassed.”

“Just make sure your kids don’t spray into our yard again.”

“And, John? I’d like you to stop killing birds or I’ll have to call the police.”

As Arse-boy retreated down our driveway, I had to stifle a hoot. I am in AWE of my mom! She wasn’t afraid of Arse-boy and she made him look like a little wimp. I bet Arse-boy is afraid of her now!

Mom didn’t yell at us for spraying the hose but she did warn us not to do it again because the Arse boys don’t seem very nice. And John would be super mad if there were ever a next time.

(To be continued.)