I don’t want my inbox cluttered with many-forwarded homilies. I know mothers are important, I know mothers are special, and I know many remarkable women have been mothers. However, I will not feel any more special because you managed to type in my email address after hitting the “forward” button.
I don’t want breakfast in bed. I’d have to clean up after you anyhow.
I don’t want candy. Well, that’s not true. I want candy every day. But I don’t want you to spend twice as much on the candy because the box says, “Mom.”
I don’t want flowers. In a week I’m going to have to clean up the gross slimy water and dead stems.
I don’t want some cute little knick-knack that says “Moms are the greatest, and I’m so glad you’re mine!” Unless you made it with your own two hands.
Here’s what I want:
I want you to learn to clean up after your damned self.
I want you to understand that I could get your chores done 5 times faster than you do them, and it would be easier for me to do them; it’s less work to wash the damned dishes myself than it is to get you to do them. There’s a REASON you’ve got chores, and it’s not “Because Hama doesn’t feel like it.” Well, most of the time it’s not.
I want you to grow up to be a worthwhile human being. You don’t have to be the best, or the smartest, or the fastest, or the strongest.
I want you to be kind.
I want you to be a functioning member of the human race.
I want people to stop saying, when I tell them I’m a housewife, “Oh…so you don’t have a REAL job.”
I want to stop hating the fact that the only way to have my own spending money is to sacrifice time with my family.
I want folks who don’t have kids to stop telling me what I’m doing wrong.
When my friends, all of whom are childless, tell me about the fun things they’ve done or are going to do, I want them to shitcan the “Hama can’t go because she’s got kids” expression of pity that fleetingly crosses their faces. I want to do fun things, I’m unhappy enough that I can’t…but the look of pity racks me off.
Right at this moment, though, I want people to STOP telling me, “It’s Mother’s Day, it’s YOUR day, you’re SPECIAL,” and then leave me alone in the house with the kids again, just like I am almost every damned day of my life. Don’t get me wrong: I love my kids. I love them senseless. However, sometimes I would really like the luxury of loving them from a DISTANCE instead of loving them UP IN MY FACE.
On the whole, this rant is only worth about a 1.5, but since I got up and got everyone breakfast, made the coffee, got the kids dressed and cleaned the living room, you’ll excuse me for not being more enthusiastic about stupid Mother’s Day.