Back during my very early years in the suburbs, a bunch of neighborhood kids and I got together in a vacant lot across the street from my parent's house. We raked dry autumn leaves into a huge pile beneath a towering oak tree. Each of us would take turns climbing as high as we dared into that big tree and then we'd jump down into the leaf-pile. This evolved into a daredevil contest that eventually narrowed down to a tie between another kid and me. There was no possible way for either of us to climb any higher than we did, so I hollered down to the bunch of kids on the ground to set the pile of leaves afire. Well, I jumped and the other kid in the tree didn't, and at that very moment my eye caught sight of my Mom kicking open the breezeway door of our house like some sort of female super ninja warrior. She raced across the street at an unearthly speed, faster than the rate that gravity had me falling toward the flames. That Wonder Woman somehow covered around 50-yards in warp-speed-time and she slapped my butt a nano-second before I splashed into the inferno. She then dragged me all the way back to our house, beating the still-smoldering seat of my pants each step of the way.
Mom would tell HER VERSION (slightly different than mine) of that story (and many other such stories) to everyone she met for the rest of her life; “OH? You think YOUR kid is/was a problem child? Lemme tell ya about one of MINE!"
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Mom was the very best of the best!
Ummm, let's just say that I wasn't the best behaved of her 5 sons ...
😈
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/Z@X
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