Pull the Wings Off Butterflies

If I was Donald Trump’s mother and I witnessed him jerking his arms in the air in mockery of New York Times reporter Serge Koveleski, I would have slapped him across the face. In front of God and everybody.

Never mind that he is running for President which, as his mother, I would know he has no business doing. How his horrible behavior reflected on me would trump, as it were, any other prevailing interests, including his misbegotten notion that he should be the leader of the free world.

I will not countenance a child of mine being a complete and utter asshole. Trust me, this isn’t hypothetical tough talk here.  I’m no travel writer talking  about places I’ve never visited.

What I learned long ago, not quite soon enough but in time, was that my disapproval as a mother is power-packed and toxic like the poison on an arrow piercing through a South American jungle.

My children are all adults now. And, happily, the occasions when I feel compelled to show any disapproval are rare, nearly non-existent. But, quite frankly, one doesn’t have to use a weapon to appreciate having it. As all the Cold War arms racers would say, it’s better to have a nuclear bomb hidden somewhere in Nebraska than to stand on the shore with a slingshot.

Unfortunately, Donald Trump’s mother died in 2000 so she is not here to do what any mother in the universe would do if she caught her son making fun of a person with a disability. This means that Donald Trump is now a boy without any fear of the poisoned arrow. He thinks he is home free. He thinks he can pull the wings off butterflies and nobody can stop him.

So I say to all the mothers out there: if you caught your own boy behaving this way, mocking someone, being cocky and cruel, and bringing shame to your name, what would you do?

I think I know. Send the arrow.