Love Thy Mother - Lewiston Sun Journal - Lewiston Sun Journal

I love you.

Are there three words packed with more intent than these three? I suppose “I hate you” is right up there, but “I love you” is nearer the beginning than the hate that may follow. Is it possible to hate something without having loved it first? If you’ve never had sight, then are you blind or sightless? You know, a little contrast goes a long way. The English language struggles with the quality of the word “love” since it so easily applies it to such diverse recipients. “I love my car. I love that singer. I love that river. I love winter. I love apple pie. ‘I love the smell of napalm in the morning.’”

What we really mean when we say “I love you” to another human is, “I love the way you make me feel. I love about you what I recognize in myself. I now own you. I have tagged you like a wild animal and will track your every move.” Shouldn’t there be a stream of preceding qualifiers before the love declaration? Such as: I respect you; I acknowledge you; I enjoy your cooking; I am lonely, and I guess you’ll do.

I have loved many women in my lifetime for myriad reasons. I prefer their company over that of men. Women are funnier than men. They’ve learned that it’s better to cry from laughter than from pain. Women are stronger than men. They’ve had to be, with so many trying to harm them. Their DNA is made of bricks. And women are smarter. Our specie’s survival counts on that. Their brains are made of libraries and trapezes and hot chocolate, minus the romance, a net, and whipped cream.

Not one of us would be here if not for a woman. They are blessed and burdened with the most complicated machine parts that require constant maintenance. Any number of things could go wrong at any given time along the way. They should have their own pit crews to pull into for immediate service like a medical NASCAR. And don’t anyone dare ever give women a hard time for complaining when there is a problem with their machinery. I don’t know about any of you, but I remember the last three months I spent in my mother’s womb. It was a pretty sweet setup: cushiony, warm, mostly quiet except for the ruckus from my five siblings on the outside, and an occasional cocktail and cigarette to jazz things up. I hung some groovy posters and had a small TV hooked up. I could’ve stayed in there until I was developed enough to walk out on my own, like a spindly pony, with a cigar in one hand and a martini in the other. “Hey, Mom, pay the valet, would ya.”

Think about it, women voluntarily allow an alien being to grow in their uterus, an alien that’s trying to kill them for their resources. They even build a palatial placenta for the little E.T. to hang out in. This is crazy. And as if the pain and discomfort aren’t enough for them to endure, they expel the alien under great duress, performing the equivalent of pushing a bowling ball through a soda straw…and it lasts hours, and hours, while the guy responsible for putting them in this condition stands there glibly offering hollow words of comfort. “You’re doing great, babe. Not much longer, babe. We’ll name it after me, babe.” It’s a wonder more murders aren’t committed during this stage of the process. Every woman would be innocent based on justifiable homicide and whittle the population down to a more manageable ratio of one man to every 20 women. Careful what you wish for, men.

Come to think of it, perhaps love is just a false emotion evolution concocted to stave off the base true nature of humanity’s violent aggression, its proclivity towards beating ourselves into extinction. Maybe God’s love has a plan for us after all. Lord knows She’s been around long enough to figure out a thing or two.