Every single year, since I was old enough to feel the pressure to celebrate it, it’s been the same old thing.
Mother’s Day is a Bitch.
I can’t ignore it. The pop-up ads from the national florists tell me to Shop Now, Save 25% for Mother’s Day. The television ads for I don’t know what… I try to tune them out. The subliminal and blatant messages everywhere in the two weeks prior. Perfume, gardening gloves, hats, massage appointments, scented soaps, chocolate, cheese boards and Etsy earrings.
My mother isn’t a sophisticated, scented, hat-wearing, high-heeled, groomed and gracious example of the archetype.
I go to the card shop and stand in front of the rack. While others come and go, selecting their fourth or fifth choice, I have to open every damned card.
No. My mother has not “taught me everything I know.”
No. My mother has not “always been there for me.” There? Where?
No. My mother never “gave me wings.” She did push me out of the nest.
No. My mother was not “right about everything.” Was she right about anything?
No. My mother did not “always make it look easy.”
No. My mother did not “give me wonderful memories.” She gave me nightmares.
No. My mother did not “make life great for me.”
No. My mother did not “encourage me,” “praise me,” or “cheer me on.” None of the above.
I can’t choose a blank inside card. Then I might say what I’m thinking.
I found one card that came close in a warped kind of way. It said:
Front of card: “None of your kids are in prison.”
Inside of card: “That’s a motherhood blue ribbon right there.”
Hmmph. They were trying to be cute and humorous, but it’s a wonder that I’m not in prison with the rest of the Orange/New/Black inmates. It’s an absolute bleepin miracle that I didn’t end up promiscuous and drug-addicted in my quest for your love. But there are worse things than promiscuous and drug-addicted.
If I were a Hallmark card designer I would say:
“Mom, I hope you have the kind of day that you deserve.”
Yeah, that’s it.