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Mommy Dearest
by Marianne Moody Jennings, JD

e drove our children to the home of some friends in suburban Apache Junction to see farm animals. When we came to the chickens, my husband and I were overcome. There we were, two forty-something lawyers flapping our arms (wings) and clucking. We stopped when we realized our children, three people who think it is perfectly normal to walk around with two Crayolas up your nose, were staring incredulously at Foghorn Legorn and his spouse.

I don't mind the immediate humiliation. I don't even mind not being able to understand what makes adults imitate chickens, moo at cows and watch Wheel of Fortune. My only fear is that my children will grow up and write books and the chicken incident will become the central theme of a Donahue show: "Parents forced children to watch as they engaged in bizarre animal rituals."

There is a literary phenomenon that has dominated the best seller list since the 1970's--kids turning on their parents to make money. These literary masterpieces are even better when the parents and/or the kids are famous.

From Christina Crawford to Patti Davis (four times already) to Roseanne Barr Arnold (now just Roseanne) to former Miss Americas, spilling guts seems to be a new duty of children. I don't know why everyone is so worked up about Hillary Clinton's drive to give children the right to sue their parents. I'd prefer a good lawsuit next to the "my mother was head of the EPA and she wouldn't let us collect cans" book and its accompanying royalties.

My kids used to say, "Ground me and I"ll sue." Now they say, "Ground me and my book will make Joan Crawford look like Lil Lamb Chop next to you."

These successful parent-bashing books are interfering with the disciplinary process. About 6:30 p.m. in our house, as spaghetti drips from the ceiling and we're putting the high pressure nozzle on the garden hose to clean the kitchen floor, things come out of my mouth like, "if one of you makes another noise at any time for the rest of your life, you will find yourself superglued to the saguaro in the front yard."

When their book comes out, this event will read: "My mother touted herself as a sensible and calm person who viewed life and handled crises with a sense of humor. But each night after dinner, she mercilessly hung us from the needle-ridden cactus in our front yard so that she could maintain a spotless home."

I'm not saying children are not bright, but their memories are faulty. Their views of what happened when they were young have more embellishments than Whitewater diaries. For example, I've threatened my mother for years with my recollection that she broke a wooden spoon on me. The truth is she broke the spoon pounding it on the stairs while saying, "Boy, are you going to get it." Children are about as good at disclosing relevant details about their pasts as Bill Clinton.

Children, especially when they are grown and have word processors need to understand that all parents make mistakes. I once allowed grape juice in a house with tan carpet. My children will write, "Our mother preferred that we develop scurvy because of the danger Vitamin C-laden Welch's posed to her elegant beige Karastan."

In these tell-all books, we get one side of the story. The other side is gone or too timid or dignified to respond. We are left with an impression of revenge, pettiness and relationships destroyed beyond repair. Honor they father and thy mother seems conditional--except when royalties are involved.

In some books and disclosures, children allege serious parental misconduct. Yet resolution of the abuses comes not through a People interview. Resolution comes through confrontation and, in many cases, counseling for the parent and child. Oprah is not licensed for such.

I'll admit I'm worried. Writer/Director Nora Ephron says that what's good for you isn't good for your kids and vice versa. Maybe not. Here's one for my kids: "Our mother was a real wicked witch of the west but we're not allowed to write books about her."

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Marianne Moody Jennings teaches legal and ethical studies at Arizona State University. She is the author of Nobody Fixes Real Carrot Sticks Anymore.