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Every parent's worst nightmare ... Having a child named Bryce

I owe two very important people in my life an apology.

Last weekend, while visiting them in Greenville, I learned that my mom and dad think I've been excessively mean to them in my column over the years.

Sure, they have a valid point, I can be a tad cruel to them sometimes. But in my defense, I didn't even think they could read. Well, as it turns out, not only can they read, they can bite their tongue, too. So for the past few years, they've been silently stewing about how they feel they've been misrepresented in this very space week in and week out.

Naturally, I politely disagreed with them by calling them "morons." But as soon as I got back to Charleston and my office, I looked back at some of my columns from the past to see if just maybe they were on to something.

First, I started with my dad. Here are some of the things I found from previous columns:

Ten thousand dollars can buy a lot of things ... but the last thing you'd probably buy is a pair of military-issue night vision goggles. Unless you're like my dad who has a pair for "bird-watching." (Evidently there are lots of birds in his next-door neighbor's house at night.)

At 82 years old, my grandmother is savvy enough to know how to use a computer (which, for the record, puts her WAY ahead of my dad, who thinks a hard drive is making it home from a Mexican restaurant without having to stop to use the bathroom).

Another lesser factor that probably contributed to me sleeping on my stomach was the fact that my dad slept on his back and snored so loudly that ships in the harbor would turn around and head back to their home port because they thought there was a fog warning.

On a nerd scale, fantasy football probably ranks somewhere between competitive cup stacking and wearing a fanny pack to the office (consider this an intervention, Dad).

Q. My phone is able to take pictures. Is it considered a faux pas to use this feature when sneaking into the women's bathroom at my office?

A. Dad, how many times have we gone over this?

Like my dad always says, "There's nothing hotter than a woman twice your age. Or half. Heck, who am I kidding? I'll settle for breathing."

Don't you hate it when somebody around you gets up to go to the bathroom during the most exciting scene in a movie? It's even more awkward when he doesn't leave the theater to do it (Dad).

If somehow I managed to win, I would become the first millionaire in my family. Without gonorrhea. (Sorry, Dad ... Wait, he's not a millionaire.)

I always sat on the front row of every class I ever took in school. Sure people would call me hurtful names such as "Goody Two Shoes, "Nerd Boy" and "Randy Donovan's son," but I'm pretty sure if you asked them today, those teachers would tell you they didn't really mean it.

OK, so maybe my dad has a point. I probably shouldn't have used his full name in that last one.

Next, I looked back at some of the things I said about my mother:

I love my mom. I really do. Well, except for the time she made me perform a one-man play she wrote titled: "99 percent effective. Yeah, right. Thanks a lot, Trojan."

I was the little kid who always locked the door when he went to the bathroom. The freak at tennis camp who showered with a bathing suit on. The one at the lake who refused to skinny dip. (And why did Mom want me to do it, anyway?)

Saturday I drove to Columbia to watch the South Carolina football game. The Gamecocks' lackluster play aside, I saw several things that concerned me: 1.) A guy sniffing glue in the parking lot. 2.) A woman (oh, let's call her Mom) making out with the mascot. 3.) The mascot taking off his head revealing the guy who was sniffing glue in the parking lot.

Take my mom, for example. Born in Scotland, she was forced to be a tough, independent woman. When she moved over to the States and had me, she raised me a little differently than other moms. First, I had to wear a kilt to school. Second, she made me speak with a fake Scottish accent. (I love me kilt, mum!) Obviously, the other kids made fun of this.

When I was in the ninth grade, my mom took me to the dermatologist because I had bad acne. I distinctly remember the doctor telling my mother, and I quote, "I'm sorry ma'am, but we don't treat gunshot wounds here." Then they shared a laugh (and I'm pretty sure my mom gave him a high-five).

Ever since I was a kid, my mom has always put me to work in the yard. Now that's not to say she treated me like a mule. The mule could have friends over. But I can vividly remember those hot summer days when I was about 12 and my mom would whip me as I dug holes for her new shrubbery. Of course, I am exaggerating. My mom loves me and would never whip me. She preferred throwing rocks.

My mom has a history of seducing band members:

MOM: "Honey, I'm home!"

ME (age 11): "Hey Mom! How was the KISS show?"

MOM: "It was fantastic. Now come give Mommy a hug before you go to bed."

ME: "Why do you have black-and-white paint smeared all over you?"

OK, wow. I WAS mean to them. Apparently I DO owe them an apology.

So Mom, Dad: I'm sorry for being such a little snot over the years. For making fun of you guys simply to get a laugh. For accentuating your negatives and ignoring the positives. And most importantly, for ever telling you where you could find my columns online.

Bryce Donovan loves his mom and dad very much. Even though they tried to sell him on eBay once. Reach him at 937-5938 or bdonovan@postandcourier.com.

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