"The proper approach is key."

- Easily attributed to pilots, golfers, or interrogators

THE CHERRY TREE

Once upon a time, when I was four and everything was good in the world, my Granny lived on a big hill and had a cherry tree in the backyard at the bottom of a long set of stairs..

Well, one day I was hanging out under the cherry tree, eating cherries to my heart's content and playing with bugs (as four years old boys are prone to do).

My mom came down and told me to stop (eating cherries, not playing with bugs) or else I would get sick.

I said, "ok, momma," waited 'till she went back inside, and then continued to eat the cherries.

A little bit later she came back out and again told me to stop eating the cherries or else I would get sick.

This time she said, "Patrick, stop that right now. You are going to get sick."

The use of my full first name was an indicator that she was getting mad. However, as I wasn't quite in trouble yet, I once more waited until she went back inside and then continued; mildly annoyed that she was such a spoilsport.

The next time she came out she was livid...

"Patrick Glenn!! I told you to stop, now you are really in trouble!"

Now I was in trouble. I knew deep in my little heart of hearts it would be the 'switch' next if I didn't think fast.

I looked at her, my hands full of cherries, my face smeared with cherry juice, and said, "But, momma, I picked these just for you."

She broke into tears and fled back into my granny's house and I went back to eating my cherries, mentally patting myself on the back for getting out of that.

....Of course, I was sicker than a dog and have been forever doomed since. She never hesitates to dredge this story up whenever anyone (girlfriend, coworker, neighbor) asks what I was like as a kid

...And then she shows them the pictures of me naked in the tub when I was nine; it's horrible.

The Moral?

Moms have longer memories than elephants and won't hesitate to use that information you would much rather remain in the family.

Author's Addendum: Months after I originally posted this my mom sent me the following rebuttal:

You have yourself confused with G. Washington. It was a plum tree; on Easter. The plums were not ripe.

You were three years and eight months old.

I was walking up and down stairs while nine months pregnant with your sister; attempting to take care of my child.

Did I also mention that moms are the masters of guilt? ;-)

Oh well, I like my version better.