We lived on Rockland Street in Natick, Massachusetts.  I was the youngest of the first half of a large brood of Cormiers.  Because there were four other children ahead of me, I learned to avoid being disciplined by paying attention to what was meted out to my older siblings.  But, one particular day,I was in a whiney mood and was being resistant to helping my Mom with chores.  I don't know.  At six years old, I would imagine most kids have days like that.  Unfortunately, I chose a day when my mother wasn't in the mood for my little tantrum.  You see, she sent me into the small pantry/closet to bring something to her.  It doesn't matter what the item was - it is irrelevant to my story.

Suffice it to say, I was raised in a family where order and discipline were essential to peace and harmony.  There were so many of us that there was no opportunity or allowance made for backtalk or disrespect.  And if we ever disrespected our mother, Dad provided a swift reminder to ensure that we didn't do it again!!  I'm not sure where the rest of siblings were on the day I headed into the broom closet to retrieve whatever it was I was supposed to bring to my mother.  All I know is I stomped through the dining room and into the kitchen in full defiance of my mother.  After all, why should "I" have to go to the closet?  Isn't it just as easy for Mom to get it??  Oh . . . but when I went through that closet door I was quickly provided (and confronted with) the answer to that question. 

Stepping through the door I was still in "stomping mode."  My left foot came down first and, since I am right-side dominant, my right foot landed swiftly and with great force.  The problem with that was the mop leaning strategically against the wall to my right.  My foot struck that mop head with such force that the handle had no choice but to strike me right between the eyes.  I had no idea what hit me.  I began to wail, backing out of the closet, when my eyes beheld that lousy mop, propped right back up in the same position I had found it.  It had jumped out, bopped me on the head, and then regained it's regal place of honor in the closet.

I went wailing, holding my forehead, tears pouring down my face.  To whom do you think I ran?  Why, my mother, of course!  Don't all children look to their mothers to wipe their tears and kiss their boo-boos.  Instead, my mother looked me in the eye and loudly proclaimed, "Well, that's what you get!!!"  Wow.  That was an even more painful blow that the first.  I was hurt . . . very hurt.  What kind of mother has no regard for the feelings of her child?  Why, I had always thought she loved me.  What did I ever do to deserve such meanness??? 

Needless to say, I got over it.  Later that same day, my pride restored, I realized that the mop (and my mother) had taught me the concept of cause and effect.  And I never forgot it.  Oh, I've laughed over it and shared the story with countless people, but I've never forgotten the lesson I learned.  We are all ultimately responsible for our actions and must accept the results of both the good and the bad.