Mother’s Day is almost here. It’s time to pay the piper. When you were five I accepted those dandelion bouquets, plucked from the yard and placed in plastic cups. When you were ten, I was thrilled at the Dollar Store finds you presented: a porcelain boy perched on a mushroom (yes, a mushroom), a polka dotted hair bow, a plastic string of beads. And while I still own those trinkets and cherish their sweet garishness, you’ve outgrown the gaudy gift phase. You are now mature enough to know that nobody really needs a porcelain boy on a mushroom. And if you should require more convincing, here are 5 reasons I deserve more on Mother’s Day…
It was nine months of expanding body parts (ankles, butt and breasts to name a few). And while some might say big breasts are a perk, pregnancy breasts are the exception. No catalog, boutique at the mall, or Victoria’s Secret store on earth had equipment enough to hold the twenty-pound pair I carried. There was no stomach sleeping, no toe touching, and no getting out of a bean bag chair without another human’s assistance. I could write an entire post on the discomfort I experienced in pregnancy, but I’ll let WebMD tell you more about hemorrhoids, migraine headaches and heartburn at midnight.
Tantrums in the Checkout Aisle
So you wanted the watermelon bubblegum, or the peanut M&Ms the store so conveniently stocked near the checkout. I said, “No,” you said, “Now.” There was kicking, screaming, a hot red face wet with tears. And that was just me. You behaved badly, too. For all those times you embarrassed me in public, I demand compensation.
Wet Socks Under the Sofa
What’s that smell? Oh dear god, what’s that smell? You watched me rip the house apart, open every drawer, and search every square foot of living space. But you never told me you left your stale snow-wet socks beneath the sofa, and that you’d leave other pairs in other places—because why make the trip to the clothes hamper? Scavenger hunts are more fun.
That Time You Told the Teacher I gave You a Black Eye
Boys will be boys. They sport capes, throw rocks, climb counters to steal cookies, and in the process, they get bruised. No biggie. But when the teachers ask how the accident happened, most boys don’t blurt out, “My mom punched me in the face.” But you did. Hardy har har! You are a comedian, and that fun little fib led to a handful of visits from an unlikely friend: the child protection agent. Thanks, kid. You know I love to entertain guests.
The Romp on the Roof
And we thought accusations of abuse were wild fun, but that was before you made all your action figures “fly” then climbed out an upstairs window to retrieve them from the roof. But good thing you had your cape on—and a sensible pair of shoes. And boy was I glad the neighbors saw you from across the street. I’m sure they thought highly of me. Moms be warned: if the playroom is quiet, all hell has unleashed.
And now we have arrived at the teen years. I’ve stayed out of prison. You’ve stayed out of the hospital (mostly). And when you’re not rolling your eyes at my parental dim-wittedness, we manage to enjoy one another. It’s been amazing, kid. I wouldn’t trade one harried day for a life without you. So believe me when I say I deserve better on Mother’s Day — but I’ll settle for a nice Hallmark card and a hug. Really.
And for the earthworms I kept in my closet during my own childhood, and the parties I threw while she worked, my mother deserves more too.
This post originally appeared on Yoga Mat Monkey. It has been reprinted with permission.
Rica Lewis is a senior magazine staff writer for an award-winning magazine, an editor and mother of two boys and one superior canine. She discovered yoga as a means to stay balanced (mostly), and maintains two websites to chronicle the journey (and provide an alibi). She also serves as the managing editor at OTV Magazine. You can find her on Yoga Mat Monkey and Rica Writes.