My Mom, The Punisher

For those who have had the pleasure of meeting Mom Z., they know how sweet and good-natured she is. How kind and creative, even a little cheeky. Less known, is her effectiveness as one of the world’s best punishers.

Link Sausage
One summer morning, my mom made my siblings and I pancakes and sausages. Only problem was, I had a hang-up about eating link sausage. Patty sausage? Done deal. Link sausage is a different story. I dunno, maybe it was the gray color. Maybe it was the little balloon knot ends. Maybe it was the little slippery casings.

Whatever the reason, I adamantly refused to eat the sausage she spent minutes out of her day cooking over the stove for us. And that pissed her off.

So much that she figured the only way to get me to eat my link sausage would be to threaten canceling my playdate with Sharon C. that afternoon.

The funny thing is that my mom and I had played the game of wills before and she always lost. I remember many nights sitting at the dining room table refusing to eat my green beans/baked potato/peas/broccoli/spinach only to hear “You will sit here all night until you eat your green beans/baked potato/peas/broccoli/spinach (not all at one meal, mind you). You’re not going to play or go watch TV. You will sit here, at this table, until you eat your vegetables.”

And so I’d sit.

And sit.

And sit.

Until finally at 9 pm (keep in mind, we’d eat dinner between 5:00 and 5:30 pm every night), she’d be completely disgusted and say, “FINE! GO TO YOUR ROOM!” And I’d consider it another willpower win.

But I digress, back to Sharon C.

My mom assumed she was calling my bluff because of my sincere love of Barbies.

But 30 minutes later, after wailing and pleading [to do anything BUT eat link sausage], I called Sharon and told her through choked sobs that “I can’t come and play today because I didn’t eat my sausage.”

Today, at the age of 31, I still refuse to eat link sausage. But nice try, Mom.


Three-O’clock-Brock
The real test of wills was the never-ending battle between Mom Z and my sister, Gretchen. To this day, when I question why she never beat the living hell out of my sister, my mom simply replies, “I didn’t want to crush her spirit. I wanted to tame her a little, but I always admired her spirit.”

My sister is the oldest, and notoriously, the trouble-maker out of the three of us. In high school, she hit her stride of rebellion.

I think it was the summer before her junior year that was the most memorable. The legend is:
While tending to her flowerbeds, my mom noticed clumps of newly mowed grass up the siding of our white house. When she looked closer, she saw a hole the diameter of a finger in Gretchen’s bedroom window screen. That night, she slept in the living room recliner and at 3 am heard a car outside our house.

Now, my parents’ house is backed up next to a cornfield, so needless to say, they don’t see a lot of late-night traffic. When she peeked out the front door, she saw my 16-year-old sister scamper across the lawn and into a black Camaro. About 30-45 minutes later, my sister scampered back across the lawn, through her bedroom window, and into her room, where my mother was waiting for her.

The next day, the wrath of Mom Z electrified the air around the breakfast table. At the ripe age of 8, I had no idea what was going on. But I could sense something bad was about to happen.

My mom interrogated me, asking if I had known about Gretchen’s late-night rendezvous’ with (who would later be named) Three-O’Clock-Brock. Again, at 16, my sister never shared secrets with me, an 8-year-old.

Her punishment? For the foreseeable future, my mom wouldn’t trust my sister by leaving her alone. Ever.

For the rest of the summer (and fall) (and winter), Gretchen escorted my mom everywhere she went. My soccer games, my brother’s soccer games, my brother’s Boy Scout meetings, grocery shopping, visits to my mom’s friends’ houses, doctor’s appointments, etc. Nor was she allowed to talk to friends over the phone or hang out with friends.

She finally lifted the ban in January, so my sister could attend a friend’s birthday party.

Now THAT is how you give a punishment. And possibly why I was so well-behaved in high school.