A Weekend by the Lake Especially for Moms

BIG BEAR LAKE — Here’s how I’d fight Mike Tyson. First, I’d work on that cinderblock head of his, knowing you’ll never damage that head, not in the early rounds, but you can tire the man’s arms.

In Round 3, I’d batter his midsection, then move back to his head, knowing his arms would be growing heavy by now and he’d drop them to protect his bruised ribs. Round 9, I’d go for the chin again, take a chip off the old cinderblock, bring him down head first. That’s how I’d fight Mike Tyson.

“Dad, someone’s talking to Mom,” the boy tells me.

“Good luck with that,” I say.

We’re on the edge of a mountain lake on Saturday afternoon waiting for friends to come by. Thirty yards up the shoreline some guy is chatting up my wife--a diamond on her finger, a little girl in her lap. These locals, they’re friendly all right.

“He’s still there,” the boy whispers.

“Ask her about her MasterCard balance,” I call to the guy, who doesn’t hear. When you’re talking to a pretty woman, you hear only her.

“He didn’t hear you,” the boy says.

“Ask her about the kids,” I yell.

She is still, after 20 years, the most desirable woman I personally know. That doesn’t mean she’s not without flaws. There’s that credit card balance. But that’s not all.

Any guy hoping to win her over has a long struggle ahead. Charm alone won’t do it. Mediocre looks either. I know. I’ve tried.

“Dad,” the boy says. “He’s still there.” Evidently, she’s also desirable to sharp-eyed strangers too long in these hills, which upsets the boy somewhat. He wants me to fight the guy.

Which gets me to thinking again how I’d handle Tyson, something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately since I saw that article in Men’s Journal last week. “Why I’m Going to Whip Tyson,” by Lennox Lewis, was the headline on the cover. Gets a guy to thinking.

So while driving up to Big Bear, I started considering how I’d fight Tyson, not why. The why seemed obvious.

By Round 10, he’d be wobbly as a country club drunk. If you can get Tyson into the late rounds, you have a chance to ring his bell.

“Dad, I think he’s leaving,” the boy says as the stranger pedals away on his old bike.

“Lucky for him,” I say.

Flirting. Chivalry. Murderous thoughts. Welcome to our Mother’s Day weekend.

“Here they come!” says the little girl as our friends’ boat heads our way. “That’s them,” I say.

“Hey, Gilligan!” screams the boy.

There is nothing like surrounding yourself with old friends on a major holiday, Mother’s Day being one of the biggest.

So up to our friends’ cabin we’ve come on this warm May weekend, to honor our significant mothers with special brunches, boat rides and music. Oh, and poetry, too, much of it store-bought.

“Mom, no matter how old I get, I’ll always be your little boy,” says the greeting card.

“See, Dad?” the boy says as he picks out the card at Vons on Big Bear Boulevard. “She might cry,” I warn him. “I think she’ll like it,” he says, tossing it in the cart.

What’s in this holiday shopping cart? Eggs. Bacon. Flowers. A $3 card. This is how we will celebrate motherhood. For one measly day, we’ll do all of the chores many mothers do every day. We’ll make a big production of it, too.

“OK, who’s setting the table?” one dad asks the next morning.

“OK, who’s burning the toast?” asks another.

Nothing will take 10 years off a kitchen like a good Mother’s Day brunch--dads and kids burning the toast and over-frying the bacon, a big dog mopping up spills down below.

“I’ve got champagne,” the other dad says. “Champagne?” asks one of the moms.

The big yellow lab circles her chair, then lies down with a grunt and some muffled cursing.

“Your dog sure curses a lot,” I tell her. “She’s a Virgo,” the mother explains.

“Of course,” someone says, prompting more champagne.

We had started the holiday Sunday in the cold lake, in a slick new ski boat, hunkered down against the cold as we let the mothers sleep in.

One guy goes, then another guy goes. We don’t enjoy the water-skiing so much as we survive it. The water is still in the 50s, cold as a gin and tonic.

“Know what some guys are doing now?” I ask my host as we sit around the boat, bare-chested and pretending not to shiver.

“What?”

“Shaving their chests,” I say.

“Who says?” my friend asks.

“Saw it somewhere,” I explain. “Promise me this: If I ever shave my chest hair, just shoot me.”

There is a pause. The host looks at his son. His son looks at me.

“My dad shaves his chest,” the son says.

“Everybody should,” I say, then jump in the icy lake.

In the afternoon, the mothers read, then sleep, then read, then sleep. Our contribution? We don’t wake them when we can’t find a sock or the car keys. We don’t play Wiffle ball in the bathroom or football on the beds.

So this Mother’s Day was a pretty big success, if you believe in such things. Success, that is. And measure it pretty generously. I put my foot in my mouth for breakfast, but saved room for brunch.

For one sweet Sunday, we let the mothers rest. These mountains, they’re pretty good for that.

“I’m glad you guys came,” our hostess says at the end of the day.

“Know what some guys are doing?” I whisper.

“What?”

“Shaving their chests,” I say.

“David shaves his chest,” she whispers back.

So I heard.

Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is [email protected].