The following is an excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. The book is a collection of the humor columns I used to write for the Plano Star Courier, a suburb of Dallas. A number of readers had suggested I put them together in a book, and a number of years later I finally did.
“The Devil Wears Prada” meets Erma Bombeck in this humorous memoir that tells all the secrets of the Miller family. Not even the names have been changed to protect the innocent.
What on earth do a dead tomato plant and a paycheck have in common? Maryann Miller explores the fun and foibles of how to survive parenting a large family, while vainly keeping body and mind intact. From School Daze to Summertime Blues, and everything in between, the book airs the Miller laundry with all the holes and missing buttons. She answers important family questions such as: What’s for dinner? Who wrote the dirty words on the wall? Can we really pee in the woods? Do the kids really like the dog better than Mom?
Readers of the humor column, from which this books comes, delighted in The Great Lasagna Caper, the fits of tantrum that demolished a telephone, The Lawn Wars, who is and who isn’t Socially Acceptable, and the crazy dinnertime conversations.
The dead tomato plant was a Mother’s Day gift one year. My son planted it in the old can at school and forgot to water it when he brought it home the week prior to Mother’s Day. I still have the can.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And now the excerpt. Enjoy….
It’s an indisputable fact that as parents our intelligence ratio is in direct proportion to the ages of our children. The younger they are, the smarter we are.
I came to this profound realization the day my oldest daughter turned 16 and half my gray matter instantly disintegrated. It was hard to believe that she was the same daughter who used to consider me the final authority on everything from why God made bugs to how the moon got up in the sky.
How fondly I remembered those good old days when she was four and I was smart. She stood in awe of me because I could answer all her questions, not to mention the fact that I could actually grow a plant from her watermelon seed.
Then she grew up, and it reached a point where I would give almost anything for just one brief glimmer of that old wide-eyed wonder. In fact, I would have given anything for a simple nodding acknowledgement that I might know something besides my name, address, and phone number.
It was a terrible shock to realize this was happening. I had years of education behind me. Not to mention all the accumulated wisdom from the intervening years, and I was reduced to pre-kindergarten status by one disdainful glance.
I, who used to be the most respected beauty consultant outside of Glamour magazine, suddenly knew nothing about hair care or make up.
I, who used to rival Chef Tell and the Galloping Gourmet in the kitchen, was now hard pressed to turn out a decent carrot stick.
I, who at one point could have started my own designer label with all the cute little dresses I created, had about as much taste as Miss Piggy.
Mind you, this was the same daughter who used to wear those dresses and tell everyone that her mommy made them for her. Now she wanted all the old photographs destroyed so nobody would ever see that she once wore a dress made from pillow ticking.
It was a cute dress. Honest. With little yellow daisies on it that I hand appliquéd. But did that matter? No. All she worried about was the fashion police and the fact that someone might decide she looked like a pillow. Forget the fact that she was thin as a rail and everyone knows a pillow is plump. She was sure that if anyone saw the picture, she would lose what little social standing she had.
This disdain for my mental acuity reached a point that I started wishing we could go back in time so I could bask in her adoration once again.
But then I had a second thought on the subject.
If we went back in time, this day of reckoning would still be lurking in my future, and I’d eventually have to face into it. Since I was already there, I might as well tough it out while I still had a small shred of intelligence left.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That’s it for me for today, folks, and I hope you enjoyed that bit of frivolity. Whatever your plans for the Labor Day holiday, I do hope it involves lots of good times with family and friends. Not much real celebrating will happen here. A son and his wife are coming to help me pack for my upcoming move. We always have a good time together, but none of the usual relaxing holiday get togethers that usually involve cookouts and games. Maybe we can make a game out of the packing. Who can pack the most boxes.
Be safe. Be happy.