A Letter to Mom

It’s Mother’s Day.

A day for remembering all the sacrifices that mothers do. Those frumpy souls who pack the lunches in the morning and wipe noses and whatever the hell they do. What do they do? Watch a lot of soap operas, right?

Here, mom, have some flowers, and thanks for all those years of not complaining. Yes, you’re a martyr, but you like that role, don’t you? Mothers are supposed to be saintly, sacrificing so that others can bloom. Any mother who complained about how life has unfolded, must be a shrew, a harpy, a bitch.

Because having a family makes us complete.

Yes, you took off many years from work to make sure that we had the right start in life. Your old job wouldn’t have let you have more than three months off and had no provisions for breastfeeding, so you quit. Dad shouldered the burden of providing for the family. Good old dad. He put in those hard days at the office and at the after hour parties, while you were home with us.

Too bad that Dad ran off with the secretary. Who could blame him. You really let yourself go.

Since Dad had that hotshit lawyer who knew of lots of great hiding places for cash, you really didn’t get all that much. So after years out of the workforce, you had to start all over again at a sucky job. Yeah, it’s hard to find someone to employ a 45 year old woman who needs to leave early to pick up sick kids from school.

I’m sure you’re glad that you’re not one of the women demanding change. Mothers certainly shouldn’t expect government or society to make life easier on them. Sorry, but that’s just one of nature’s little jokes – the uterus. Shrug. Sure, glad that I don’t have one.

(Sorry to be bitchy. Not. Hubby, who is all too aware of these issues, made a splendid breakfast this morning and gave me some time off. )