Sometimes I don’t want to respond to the, “Happy Mother’s Day’s,” as I keep feeling all the many conflicting but authentic bits of motherhood under me, like thumping behind a free willed horse I’m tied to, who’s aiming through Nottingham Forest. There’s so much pressure to be the cherubic woman on Mother’s Day. Really? Heals! Whilst roped to a horses bum!
Look! There’s Marian! She’s sagging and her right boob is slung over her shoulder. Nifty!
“Way to go Marian! You look terrific!”
See. We all lie for love.
Marian responded with a rude gesture but she was smiling. Oh, the inconsistencies women wrestle must be expressed!
There’s the number one: Being a mother is the best freaking thing of my life! I’m so glad I’m a mommy! And, thank you for making me breakfast. Yum! Once a year.
Get away from my babies, world! You can never love them like me!
But numbers two through ninety-nine are always rudely jostling for position. Motherhood is like a stutter on repeat of, it’s really not about you!
Or wait, it is! If they fail, ie, turn into a collage of psycho-murderer blended with a throw-up fake and furry do-gooder, it’s all on me! Like getting ticketed when your kid shoplifts Snickers at Target. All time low. (I know you’re asking if that happened to me.)
One hundred stays quiet, squat and permanent: Those kids will leave you in the end. And then you are old.
But I think the reason we yell, “Happy Mother’s Day!,” to each other (and please don’t forget the apostrophe! There’s nothing that reminds us of what failures we are as mothers than bad grammer! Or is it gramm-ar?), is so that we remember, we have each other. We are really not alone.
Happy Mother’s Day, Peeps! You look great!
(Ow! Don’t throw things at me!)
And if you don’t get it, than you don’t get. Maybe read this again in ten years.
Self care tip: Stay connected. You are not alone.
Questions: Tell us about your Mother’s Day. Boys too! We want to hear you.