You forgot again. Admit it.
In spite of all the displays in the grocery stores, the non-stop "Mothers Day" marketing on network television - in spite of the advertising for "Sunday brunch" and cheap roses, you forgot the one day we set aside to remember the woman who brought you into this world.
Twelve hours I pushed. A lesser woman would have given up - but not me! I was near death, but I kept pushing! And then - a miracle! I left my body and floated to the ceiling! I looked down and saw this poor little woman, lying in a hospital bed. All around her, nurses scurried - one of them held a tiny little bundle and said, 'Come back! Come back! You have so much to live for!' So - I went back. And for what? This?
You forgot the one day we remember the woman who gave up everything - a Ph.D in art history - a fabulous career as Supreme Court Justice - so she could be in the kitchen baking cookies when you got home from school.
Is it too much to ask that you wipe your feet? Take off your boots? Look around! You even notice my clean floor? And what's with you and that damn back-pack? For god's sake, move it away from the front door. What? You born in a barn?
You forgot the one day we celebrate the one person who put up with all your adolescence nonsense; who never turned away, no matter how obnoxious you behaved.
You're a smart girl - you got the world by the tail. And you want to throw it all away on a boy like that? Okay, okay, okay. Invite the loser for dinner, why don't you? I'll dazzle him with my pot roast. Maybe if he eats a decent meal he'll be a decent boy.
I know, I know. She's hard to warm to - and you've ignored her on purpose.
Sorry, Bunky. Time to man-up, woman-up, step up. Time to fake your appreciation for the woman who gave you life.
Baffled as to how? Don't worry - the Huffington Post pays me the big bucks to pass on this stellar wisdom.
- A phone call. Put down that electronic whatever-you-call-it, pick up a real, live honest-to-god telephone and call your poor mother. Tell her you love her. Think of something specific and precious about the woman who kept you alive when you were hell-bent on running into traffic and sticking your wet fingers into electric sockets. I used to tell my mom I loved her body odor and the way her gold tooth showed when she smiled. A mom likes to know you're paying attention.
And wipe that smirk off your face.