My friend, Dennis Hawkins found this colorful writing and sent it to me as an e-mail. While each has his/her own remembrances about Mother as her day draws near, this testimonial is unique and realistically ironic in many respects. I'm sure something in the piece will sound at least vaguely familiar to many readers. So, Happy Mother's Day with a slightly different twist. Though protected by copyright,please read the letter that follows. I present to you, "The Meanest Mother." The Meanest Mother

I had the meanest mother in the whole wide world. While other kids ate candy for breakfast, we had to have cereal, eggs, or toast. When others had cokes and candy for lunch, I had to eat a sandwich. And you can guess, my supper was different than the other kids' also. But at least I wasn't alone in my sufferings. My sister and two brothers had the same mean mother as I did. My mother insisted upon knowing where we were at all times. You'd think we were on a chain gang. She had to know who our friends were and where we were going. She insisted if we said we'd be gone an hour, that we be gone one hour or less -- not one hour and one minute. I am nearly ashamed to admit it, but she actually struck us. Not once, but each time we had a mind of our own and did as we pleased. That poor belt was used more on our seats than it was to hold up Daddy's pants. Can you imagine someone actually hitting a child just because he disobeyed? Now you can begin to see how mean she really was. We had to wear clean clothes and take a bath. The other kids always wore their clothes for days. We reached the height of insults because she made our clothes herself, just to save money. Why, oh why, did we have to have a mother who made us feel different from our friends? The worst is yet to come. We had to be in bed by nine each night and up at eight the next morning. We couldn't sleep till noon like our friends. So while they slept, my mother actually had the nerve to break the child-labor law. We had to wash dishes, make beds, learn to cook and all sorts of cruel things. I believe she laid awake at night thinking of mean things to do to us. She always insisted upon us telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, even if it killed us - and it nearly did. By the time we were teenagers, she was much wiser and our life became even more unbearable. None of this tooting the horn of a car for us to come running. She embarrassed us to no end by making our dates and friends come to the door to get us. If I spent the night with a girlfriend, can you imagine she checked on me to see if I was really there. I never had the chance to elope to Mexico. That is if I'd had a boyfriend to elope with. I forgot to mention, while my friends were dating at the mature age of 12 and 13, my old-fashioned mother refused to let me date until the age of 15 and 16. Fifteen, that is, if you dated only to go to a school function. And that was maybe twice a year. Through the years, things didn't improve a bit. We could not lie in bed "sick", like our friends did, and miss school. If our friends had a toe ache, a hang nail or serious ailment, they could stay home from school. Our marks in school had to be up to par. Our friends' report cards had beautiful colors on them, black for passing, red for failing. My mother, being as different as she was, would settle for nothing less than ugly black marks. As the years rolled by, first one and the other of us was put to shame. We were graduated from high school. With our mother behind us, talking, hitting and demanding respect, none of us was allowed the pleasure of being a drop-out. My mother was a complete failure as a mother. Out of four children, a couple of us attained some higher education. None of us have ever been arrested, divorced or beaten his mate. Each of my brothers served his time in the service of this country. And whom do we have to blame for the terrible way we turned out? You're right, our mean mother. Look at the things we missed. We never got to march in a protest parade, nor to take part in a riot, burn draft cards, and a million and one other things that our friends did. She forced us to grow up into God-fearing, educated, honest adults. Using this as a background, I am trying to raise my three children. I stand a little taller and I am filled with pride when my children call me mean. Because, you see, I thank God He gave me the meanest mother in the whole world. Written By: Bobbie Pingaro © 1967

I would like to tell you that the article that you have on your web page called the Meanest Mother, I wrote in 1967. It was first published in the Our Sunday Visitor, a Catholic weekly newspaper and again in Guideposts, a magazine by Dr. Norman Vincent Peale. It has a copyright. I do not mind someone using it, as long as it is non-profit and using my name as author. I will send you a copy of the original and if you would like to use it, please change your page to reflect the original.

Thank you,

Bobbie Pingaro