Bombeck Erma - Just Wait Till You Have Children of Your Own!

Mrs. Bombecks wry sense of humor may well be the best developed in the country today.

Omaha World-Herald

Erma Bombeck is witty, wise in the ways of teenagers and husbands, and extremely talented in the art of writing. The Bombeck-Keane book is a rare treat for the readeryoung, old, or in the middle.

Sacramento Union

Humor is Mrs. Bombecks forte, but lurking near its surface are always truth, poignancy, and a deftness for putting daily ordeals into some kind of acceptable perspective. She goes a long way with her book to prove that humor is the bestpossibly the onlyway to keep the world on an even keel.

Chicago Sun-Times

Also by Erma Bombeck:

AT WITS END *

I LOST EVERYTHING IN THE POST-NATAL DEPRESSION*

THE GRASS IS ALWAYS GREENER OVER THE SEPTIC TANK*

IF LIFE IS A BOWL OF CHERRIESWHAT AM I DOING IN THE PITS?*

AUNT ERMAS COPE BOOK: How to Get From Monday to Friday in 12 Days*

MOTHERHOOD: The Second Oldest Profession

FAMILY: The Ties That Bind and Gag!*

I WANT TO GROW UP, I WANT TO GROW HAIR, I WANT TO GO TO BOISE

*Published by Fawcett Books

A Fawcett Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright 1971 by Erma Bombeck and Bill Keane

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Fawcett is a registered trademark and Fawcett colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

www.ballantinebooks.com

eISBN: 978-0-307-77823-9

Alternate Selection of the Doubleday Book Club, April 1972

v3.1

To Thel Keane and Bill Bombeck, without whose cooperation with the authors, the teen-agers and consequently the book about them could not have been produced.

Dear Bil:

I hope you will understand why I cannot start the book today as promised. It was our original idea to write and to illustrate a volume on teen-agers that was not a put-down, but would be filled with love, humor and poignancy.

How does aggravation, hostility and pain grab you?

Some women are lucky, you know. They gave birth to babies. I gave birth to teen-agers. Our daughter was born with a Princess phone growing out of her ear. Our son was born with his foot extended in an accelerator position and a set of car keys in his little fist. The third was born hostile. (Even in the nursery he staged a protest to lower the age of birth to a five-month fetus.)

This morning was unbelievable.

Mother, is that all the breakfast youre going to eat?

Im not hungry.

You say that now but later on youll eat a lot of junk that will only give you acne. Here, at least eat a piece of toast.

If I keep eating, Ill outgrow my new suit. And I want to look spiffy for Maxine Schmidlaps Tupperware party.

You use that word a thousand times a day. Is that the only word you know?

I cant help it. It says what I want to say. By the way, I need the car today.

You should get more exercise, but if you really need it, pick me up at school exactly at three. Oh, and do something about those white socks, Mom. Theyre absolutely orthopedic looking.

All the other mothers wear them.

But youre not everybody. Youre my mother.

You kids better hustle or youll be late for school, I said..

Have a good day, they chirped, and remember you cant do housework and watch As the World Turns at the same time. Get your dishes and laundry over with. Then you can watch TV.

When will they understand that I am grown up, Bil? When can I have a life of my own? When will they stop smothering me? Criticizing me? Spelling in front of me? Im forty-three years old. I want to be treated as an adult.

Truly, I am sorry I cannot start a humorous book on teen-agers today, Bil. Maybe tomorrow when I am not so g-r-o-s-s and my acne clears up.

Erma

Acute withdrawal

Ill be in my room.

Gosh, Mom, nobodys PERFECT!

In my mind, I always dreamed of the day I would have teen-agers.

Young boys would pinch me in the swimming pool and exclaim, Gee, maam, Im sorry. I thought you were your sensuous daughter, Dale.

The entire family would gather around the piano and sing songs from the King Family album. And on Friday nights, wed have a family council meeting to decide what flavor of ice cream their father, Ozzie, would bring home from the ice-cream parlor.

It never worked out that way. Our teen-agers withdrew to their bedrooms on their thirteenth birthday and didnt show themselves to us again until it was time to get married. If we spoke to them in public, they threatened to self-destruct within three minutes. And only once a young boy grinned at me, then apologized quickly with Gee, sir, Im sorry. I thought you were Eric Sevareid.

Heaven knows, we tried to make contact. One day when I knew our son Hal was in his bedroom, I pounded on the door and demanded, Open up! I know you are in there staring at your navel.

The door opened a crack and I charged into my sons bedroom shouting, Look Hal, Im your mother. I love you. So does your father. We care about you. We havent seen you in months. All we get is a glimpse of the back of your head as you slam the door, and a blurred profile as the car whizzes by. Were supposed to be communicating. How do you think I feel when the TV set flashes on the message ITS ELEVEN OCLOCK. DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR CHILDREN ARE? I cant even remember who they are.

Im not Hal, said the kid, peeling a banana. Im Henny. Hal isnt home from school yet.

Another time I thought I saw Hal race for the bathroom and bolt the door.

I know this isnt the place to talk, I shouted through the keyhole, but I thought you should know were moving next week. Im sliding the new address under the door and certainly hope you can join us. I wouldnt have brought it up, but I thought youd become anxious if you came home and the refrigerator and the hot water were gone.

A note came slowly under the door. It read, Ill surely miss you. Yours very truly, Hartley.

Finally, my husband and I figured out the only way to see Hal was to watch him play football. As we shivered in the stands, our eyes eagerly searched the satin-covered backsides on the bench. Then, a pair of familiar shoulders turned and headed toward the showers.

Hey, Hal, said his father, grabbing his arm. Son of a gun. Remember me? Im Father.

Father who? asked the boy.