Momisms: Did Your Mom Say This too?

When I was growing up, my mom had a stock of phrases she would yell at us. My sisters and I thought they were unique-but we came to realize that they weren't, mainly because we compared notes with our friends and they were hearing the same "momisms."

Of course, we swore that we would never, ever use momisms on our kids. And of course, we use them every single day. So here, in time for Mother's Day, are a few of my favorites.

If you don't eat that you will stunt your growth.

I never understood this. My entire family is short. We're like an oompa-loompa clan. There isn't a single one of us above 5'7 and frankly, that's the men. My grandmother is 5'4 and she was the tallest woman in our family until one of my sisters won the lottery and married a guy who is 6'4, thus blessing her daughter with height and legs that didn't resemble stumps.

Yet, to this day, my mother remains convinced that we're short because of our distaste for spinach and not because of our genetics. And please don't even attempt to argue with her about it, because that will bring us to another momism…

If I spoke to my mother the way you speak to me...

My mother apparently was Princess Perfect and never, ever spoke with a potty mouth to her mother. Nor did she argue with her. My mother simply agreed with everything my grandmother said. Please. We are talking about a woman who argues with the TV set when one of the HGTV designers uses an ugly paint color. I'm fairly positive she didn't just agree with grandma on everything. Or anything, for that matter.

Do you want your mouth washed out with soap?

You have no idea how many times I wanted to say, "Oh yes, Mommy dearest. I crave the deliciously natural flavor of Ivory. Yum, yum, bring it on." For the record, I do not say this to my child. I think it a lot though, especially now that he's a teenager.

If all your friends jumped off a cliff, would you jump too?

Yes, Mother. We call it bungee jumping. Oops. Hey, Mom, that's not soap in your hand is it?

Clean your plate. There are children in third world countries that are starving.

Okay, I confess. One time I turned to my mother and replied, "Then get me a box and I'll send it to them." That was followed by a string of momisms, starting with "if I talked to my mother…" and ending with me finishing my dinner and enjoying a lovely bar of Ivory for dessert.

If you break your leg climbing in that fig tree, don't come running to me.

I wanted so badly to say, "Fine, Mom. I'll just sit out in the orchard until someone finds me." But I learned my lesson with the starving children comment and managed to never break my leg until I was an adult and nowhere near a fig tree.

I spend all day over a hot stove and this is the thanks I get?

To be fair, my mother is a gourmet cook who taught desserts at a regional cooking school. The woman can whip up a meal for twenty using two ingredients and nobody at the table would ever know. Unfortunately, to be even fairer, she did not discover this talent until after I had left home. Until that time, her "slaving" repertoire included such delicacies as Mac and Cheese with sliced up hot dogs, bologna sandwiches and a horrible thing she called steak, but which we all knew was my dad's shoes fried up in a frying pan until they were well and truly dead.

But Mom, I just want you to know that I am thankful for your cooking now. Especially that homemade ravioli with the Gorgonzola cheese and walnuts. I'm very grateful for that and I may crave it even more than I crave Ivory.

I hope that when you grow up, your kids are just like you.

And let me just assure you, Mom. Junior hates my cooking, talks back to me, would love to go bungee jumping, has tried numerous times to break his leg while climbing the backyard fig tree, and eats all of his spinach, yet is still cursed by that whole oompa-loompa thing.

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