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Broke Wife, Big City
It’s Been a Mother of a Year
By Aprill Brandon
Hey, you know how every year mothers across this great country of ours
significantly lower their expectations when it comes to Mother’s Day?
How every year you all just skate by on your adorableness, doing the
bare minimum? Because it’s only Mom, afterall. She’s so grateful for
anything and everything and her love is completely unconditional.
Well, not this year, you filthy urchins. There are now conditions. We
are done being humble and loving and noble. There is no more “oh, it’s
enough of a gift just to be your mom.” We played the saintly martyr
when you kept us up all night, every night. We faced the fact you
wouldn’t let us eat a bite of a hot meal for an entire year with gentle
stoicism. And we showed amazing grace and restraint by not throwing you
out the window the first time you screamed “I HATE YOU” at us.
We did all that because we love you. And you’re amazing. And we’d die for you.
But this is 2020, you little wretches. The game has changed. We have
spent two months stuck inside this house with you. Two VERY LONG
months. With no sleepovers at Memaw’s house, no daycares or schools, no
playdates, no library storytime, no playgrounds to give us even one
tiny bittersweet gasp of freedom. There is only the constant drowning
in your endless needs and demands in a house that is growing more
ramshackled by the day.
So time to step it up.
First things first, do not try to pass yourself off as charmily
incompetent and present us with burnt toast and water mixed with coffee
grounds for breakfast. Here’s “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” by
Julia Child. Careful, it’s heavy. Now start studying. That hollandaise
sauce better make us cry tears of joy.
Speaking of studying, your teacher is a liar. You are far from a
delight in class. Which is why the card you give us this year better
contain a heartfelt three page letter about how friggin’ gorgeous and
phenomenal we are, which you hand deliver to us on a tray that also
contains a Bloody Mary.
While we are on the subject of food and drink, y’all always want to be
fed. Note we did not say “want to eat.” Note we did not say “always
hungry.” No, you want to be fed. You want us to make you something.
Well, guess what we want?
A swimming pool.
Start digging.
And no, we will not watch you dig. A full one third of our lives is now
devoted to “hey, mom watch this!” and then watching this. It doesn’t
matter if we’re cooking, or if we’re showering, or if we’re on fire. We
must watch. We must watch and then watch again and again, every time
acting just as delighted as the first time you jumped off the couch and
onto the couch cushion.
Which is why we’re gonna need a life-sized chocolate sculpture of ourselves.
Then there is the issue of the farts. We have smelled all your farts.
All of them. On a constant rotating basis. There is just a constant low
hanging miasma of fart essence wherever we go consisting of tiny baby
farts and gross boy farts and gigantic dad farts and ancient unholy dog
farts.
Buy us our own island.
Oh, you can’t afford to buy us our own island? Well, we are the
sounding board for every single thought that crosses everyone’s mind.
We don’t get to have our own thoughts anymore because we’re too busy
listening to all of yours. So, you best find someone to bankroll this
entire operation. No one’s cuteness is getting them out of this. We are
on Week Eight of this. Ain’t no one cute around here anymore.
We moms have not only kept this household going in a global pandemic,
but, more importantly, have kept all of us from killing each other. We
are freaking warrior goddesses.
BUY US AN ARMORED UNICORN TO RIDE ON.
So, in conclusion, we love you all so much. More than life itself. You
are the best thing to ever happen to us. Don’t mess this up or we’re
setting your room on fire.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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