I hate Mother’s Day.
I have two children. They are adult men now. I don’t consider it necessary to send me flowers, chocolate or gifts. They don’t have to take me out to dinner. I don’t want mushy, sentimental cards.
I should be able to ignore Mother’s Day. But I still hate it.
It’s some sort of strange reverse guilt.
If I were a Good Mother, my children would fall over themselves to honour me on Mother’s Day, no matter what I said about it. They don’t. So I must be a Bad Mother. That seems to be the public logic on the matter.
It seems that at least once a year, this little family of three (plus partners and companions) has at least one member who is unemployed, broke, transiting, or otherwise in need. We help each other as we can when these things come up. We only have each other now, and we stay pretty close these days.
So keep your judgment of my family situation to yourselves this year, please.
You aren’t here and it is none of your business. If I want to be a Bad Mother and ignore Mother’s Day, it is my own dammed problem.
I’d say, “awesome.”