So, it’s Mother’s Day. Which naturally means that all of us (minus the majority of reality TV stars, whom I’m praying with all my might were the result of some guvmint cloning experiment gone terribly wrong) are sucking up to our moms and giving her useless gifts like cards and stuffed bears that sing annoying songs.
But considering everything my mom had to put up with (and all that bail money she had to shell out), I’d like to take this holiday a step farther and give my own mother something she really wants.
And so, Mom, I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize for the following incidents:
Birth…because even though I don’t remember it, I’m pretty sure it hurt like hell and my inconsiderate fetus self did NOT leave your womb the way I found it.
The Great Tomato Standoff of 1986…that’s three hours of waiting for me to eat a vegetable you’ll never get back.
When you signed me up for that second year of ballet and it was only after you had paid for the entire year and bought me three new tutus that I announced I no longer wanted to do ballet.
The Great Brownie Lie of 1990, when I blamed the missing brownie piece (of the pan of brownies you SPECIFICALLY told me NOT to eat) on the dog.
That time when I was 14 and called you a “bitch” under my breath on the phone because you wouldn’t let me hang out with creepy, tattooed dudes double my age on a school night. Or, like, ever.
Actually, now that I think about it, I apologize in general for 1996.
For making you listen to the New Kids on the Block “Hangin’ Tough” album over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.
Every track meet you had to sit through in the volatile Ohio spring weather, but specifically that time it hailed and you toughed it out only to watch me get seventh place in the 300 hurdles.
All those times I told my brother he was actually an alien baby from Uranus (heh) that was dropped off on our doorstep and they would be coming back for him any day now.
That time I got busted for drinking a Zima when I was 17. And yes, you were right. If I was going to get busted for underage drinking, it should have been for a less embarrassing drink.
For all those birthdays I got you a “coupon book” (Good for one free hug!) because I was too cheap to buy you an actual gift.
There’s many more I could add (but let’s leave the majority of my juvenile record out of this now that most of it has been expunged).
I love you, Mom. Thanks for letting me be me (and looking the other way that time I was 19 and tried to act like I wasn’t hung over at Grandma’s birthday party but we both totally knew I was).