Ah Mother’s Day—a special day set aside just for us, and the women who ruined us.
You know I’m just kidding, right?
(*cough cough cough*)
Sorry. I didn’t mean to wheeze on your St. John Knit. Sometimes I just have trouble breathing at my full lung capacity. Oh, no reason.
Sorry I haven’t called. I’ve just been so busy with my breathing treatments, and cranial reshaping therapy, and all. No—it’s okay! You didn’t know! It was 1970. Nobody knew not to pick babies up by their heads back then. No worries!
But my cell block mates and I have been working really hard on a collaborative article over at In The Powder Room today about passive aggressive greeting cards. It’s a series of Mother’s Day Cards that should exist! I think you’ll really enjoy it and possibly even forgive me for that time I quit graduate school and moved back in with you and bought a brain damaged pet store puppy who shit all over your house.
Please know that my one lung and I were totally not thinking of you AT ALL when we were brainstorming about the various mothers in our lives. You are a saint, and everyone in my shock therapy waiting room knows it.
With nothing but love, Mama, (and a teensy bit of pent up resentment for that time you “forgot” to come to my arraignment and went on a Booze Cruise with “Uncle” Paul and his battalion instead.)*
(*None of this is true. I just have an overactive imagination…probably because I was so grossly unsupervised** as a child.)
(**Again, I’m kidding. My mother is totally awesome and anyone who says anything negative about her is going to hear from me, my cell block mates, and a sock full of nickels.)