Pittston Dispatch // PD Columnists // Maria Heck - Mother's Daze

Sunday September 06, 2009 | 01:00 AM

You know I love my little town, warts and all. The benefits, in my mind, far outweigh the negatives.

But lately, I have to tell you, the warts are becoming uglier and more prominent.

Listen, in small towns, there’s slim pickings as to how much real news there is to report. This is a blessing. It’s why we’re here and not Philadelphia or Camden, for Pete’s sake.

But, with all cozy enclaves, it’s a good news/bad news scenario. A town this small is bound to have a few dwellers who pride themselves on knowing the business of almost everyone.

I’m guilty of this at times, myself. Okay, a lot of the time. (Is it my fault my home has so many windows and I am forced to peer out of them all day long?)

No matter the block on which you live, everyone hears everything, everyone reports what they hear, mostly inaccurately, and all hell breaks loose. As we like to say, when I burp, my father, who lives three blocks away, will tell me to excuse myself. Things are that intertwined and that close.

So, as with any situation that forces people to live in close quarters, there is bound to be some missteps, some shenanigans, some strong opinions, and, of course, gossip.

Plenty of people have strong opinions about me, for example. I’ve always said I’m not for everybody. And I happily accept that. In fact, I expect it.

I’m certain my big mouth, any day of the week, grates on people’s nerves. Just ask my husband.

Look, this is America, not the Middle East. We encourage diverse beliefs; America is a patchwork quilt; different fabrics, different colors, different stitches, different degrees of ignorance.

So, say what you will about me anytime. I’m an adult, sort of, and I can take it. However, when the rumor mill gets crack-a-lackin’ and the subject matter is one of my children … back away, because mama is loaded for bear.

Rumors are like mosquito bites. They begin as almost nothing, just a little sting. Perhaps a tad annoying, but easy to ignore if you concentrate. The more you scratch the bite, the bigger it gets. It starts to hurt. You scratch it longer and with more gusto and before you know it, that damn bite is an enormously infected carbuncle, taking on a life of its own. That’s a rumor.

Although irritating, an adult can handle a little gossip. One can even confront the source if only to straighten out the fib … because a rumor is just a lie disguised as news.

But if you’re stupid enough to share an untruth regarding a child, shame, shame, shame on you. As adults, we all abide by that unwritten law that dictates you just do not – DO NOT – speak unkindly or untruthfully about anyone’s child. Everyone knows that. It’s like screaming “I just farted” during mass. You know you can’t do it. It’s wrong.

With a few glaring exceptions, I’ve always felt that my town is broader than most when it comes to intelligence and good judgment. We all look out for each other and sure as God made little green apples – we look out for each other’s children.

Though lately, I tell you, I’ve been confronted with adults who are still firmly planted in the playground. They gossip, they poke fun, they insult and they’ve committed the most mortal sin of parenting – they’ve started a rumor about a child of mine. You may have just as soon stuck a grapefruit spoon in my eye.

There are, of course, different methods with which to detonate such missteps.

Our primal mother instinct is to attack. And that’s where I was heading.

My son, however, had a different strategy. He encouraged me to … do nothing. He rationalized that in these situations, the pest that started it all has a maturity and intelligence level of an actual mosquito. He taught me that a non-reaction would be taking a higher ground. To not confront the insect would make the bite heal faster than if I spread the venom and exacerbated the wound.

What a perfectly novel solution on how to handle an adult bully: insect repellant!

I heeded his advice, because to do otherwise would be taking a different path than the one I spend my life leading him down – the trail of doing the right thing, even if it means allowing a startlingly ridiculous person off the hook too easily. He predicted correctly that by the next week their gossip would implicate yet another unsuspecting victim.

The 14 year-old was correct and handled himself better than the 46 year-old, if left to her devices.

It proves something interesting. If I burp, three blocks away, my father will tell me to excuse myself. But if you speak erroneously and boorishly about my child, I will write about it.

As we like to say, when I burp, my

father, who lives three blocks away, will tell me to excuse myself. Things are that intertwined and that close.