An Open Letter to a Certain Family Before Mother’s Day

May 6

May 6 An Open Letter to a Certain Family Before Mother’s Day

Hello, my dear family.

With Mother’s Day right around the corner, I thought I’d give some direction relative to my expectations this year, as well as some feedback on several previous Mother’s Day efforts.

For example, remember when you kids gifted me those handmade placemats adorned with words encased in laminate? MOM. LOVED. THE BEST. I can’t remember what else they said. I threw them out so quickly.

Or those pencil holders, mugs and ashtrays from pottery class that I might have kept, if only Marie Kondo had allowed.

And who could forget the flowers? Because nothing says, “Holy shit, I forgot it was Mother’s Day,” like a bunch of purple tulips purchased from a bodega Sunday morning en route home from the gym.

Oh, and the cards. So sweet. I know I told you that was all I wanted. And that it was the thought that counted, or that I didn’t really need anything. And while that may have been true before…

NOT. THIS. YEAR.

Listen close, family. Because mama is about to vent some murder hornet rage on y’all and you need to hear my words.

During these years in quarantine, I have been cooking, scrubbing, closet-cleaning, sweeping, bed-making, dishwashing, vacuuming, vacuuming, vacuuming, mopping, dog-washing and grooming, child-washing and grooming, toilet bowl cleaning, home-schooling, wound-tending and all kinds of pioneer-woman shit. And I am broken. Broken! My hair and nails are positively feral. No matter how many times I wash my hands they still smell like old sponge. I would trade all our Clorox disinfectant wipes for a pedicure. My sweat pants fit like tights and quarantine has sucked all the joy out of drinking alone in my closet, no matter how early I start.

In short, I need a boost. So this Mother’s Day, my advice is go big or go home. Or given current circumstances, get out.

I’m not asking for anything material. I know there are limitations. But please. Find a way to remind me that I am your world, your rock, your Beyoncé. Perhaps there’s a short film to be produced, or an original song to be written and performed? You know I love musical theater. How about a little number reminiscent of the Harmonia Gardens scene from “Hello, Dolly?” That would be a good start. Find out what Lin-Manuel Miranda is doing for his mother, and then, double it! That’s what I want. That's what I need.

Show me that my efforts at holding this household together have not been unappreciated. I must confess that there have been times, like when I’m bending over picking up wet Cheez-Its from your shower drain in my really tight sweatpants that I feel bereft. So give your old mom a lift. Put me on a throne. Exalt the fuck out of motherhood on this one day. Because, as we all know, come Monday, those Cheez-Its will be waiting for me. But perhaps as I hover over that shower drain in my tights, er, I mean sweatpants, I can whistle a few bars from that original song you composed, or tap my toe to that new dance number you choreographed. It sure would make me feel better. Even LOVED. Or like I was THE BEST. So c’mon, make me proud.

Or just for once, make your beds.