A Mother's Letter to Her Son....the Groom

Dear Honey Bumpkins,

These are a few short words of wisdom from your mother, before you start your new life as a husband. First of all, you must realize, you aren't marrying your mother. I mean nothing perverse in mentioning this, just that your sweet young bride won't be half as patient as Mom at tolerating your slovenly ways. She will undoubtedly balk at the glasses of milk that have long since congealed on your nightstand. She will certainly find repulsive the notion that you choose your wardrobe from the floor-with no discernable way of determining what is clean and what is not.

She will, I'm sure, appreciate clean fresh sheets on the bed. She won't want to sleep on the vile blanket you pull out from under the bed each night and throw directly onto the yellowed mattress. She will appreciate such items as toenail clippings, stray nose hairs, and navel lint to be disposed of properly. The nightstand water glass isn't the proper place for such disposal.

My next area of concern is the kitchen. Your bride will want to keep this sanitary. She will anticipate cooking and eating there. She will not appreciate the two lizards that swim in the sink and the bloodworms you store in the refrigerator to feed the lizards. The live crickets you store on the pantry shelf for their treats will turn her stomach, as will the baby spiders you feed to them. Give up your faithful pets? I wouldn't dare suggest such a thing! But please find it in your heart to relocate them from the middle of the kitchen into a more secluded area of the home-not the bathroom, however!

And since I've brought it up, that toilet seat stays down! Save yourself a lifetime of aggravation and concede to this belief now. Use common sense when using the bathroom. Do not sing quite so loudly, and please use the fan and the air freshener. (That's what's been in that little can on the shelf for all of these years!) Use toilet paper. Paper towels will ruin the plumbing-remember your brother's plight? The curtain is 100% off limits.

Now son, remember how I said you'd always be my baby-even when you're thirty-five? Well, that needs to be our little secret now. That orange rubber pacifier and faded blue terry cloth lamb must stay here at home. You really shouldn't take them to your new abode. I'm afraid that your betrothed will find them bothersome and icky. Perhaps after your firstborn arrives, you can slip them into the house discreetly. I, however, will claim no knowledge of their existence.

I am concerned that your better half will soon determine that you suffer from hypochondria. Not having been a mother, she won't be quite so understanding of the frequent ailments from which you suffer. I would suggest storing the antacid, anti-diarrhea tablets, the chewable gas pills, and the laxative in the kitchen. Immediately upon finishing your meal, feign interest in washing the dishes. This will allow you time to diagnose the evening's specific stomach malady, and will put you within strategic access to the proper medication. I'll never let on that we knew the school nurses at the elementary, middle school, and high school on a first name basis. (And I won't tell that you dated an infirmary nurse in college!)

I wish you well in this marriage-truly I do. Your happiness is of utmost importance to me. I only hope she knows you break out in a rash if your shorts aren't washed in baby soap, and that you like the pockets of your jeans to be scented with dryer sheets. I hope she knows that I've raised you to be a fine independent young man, even though you stop by here to visit every day. (You will still come, won't you?)

I'm proud of you, son, and I know you'll make a wonderful husband. Don't lose the pager I bought you-our new little secret-and remember to study the list of codes: 411=I love you Mom, 001=I miss your meals, and 911=I want to come home.

Wishing you wedded bliss,

Mother