I grew up in a trailer in the woods. It was not a luxurious double-wide but we did have an addition built on to it so there was an extra room. We grew meat birds and to keep the baby chicks warm in the spring we would keep them in the house under a heat lamp. I preferred them living in my bedroom so I would fall asleep every night to chirping of birds and the smell of tiny poos.
I’ve been reading a lot of articles this week by moms who say that Mother’s Day is a Hallmark holiday and they don’t support it. They say that they don’t need flowers to be reminded that they are loved and being a mom is no different than being anyone else so there is no need to be celebrated. I’m calling bullshit. I call this such a major case of bullshit that if we were in a pasture we’d all be drowning in it. We say we don’t like Mother’s Day because we are scared. We are scared of being let down and forgotten about and unimportant. We are also embarrassed to assume that we could deserve such an honour. And we are simply too fatigued by all the continuous moments to rightfully claim a day that is ours. We say we don’t like Mother’s Day for the same reason we say we don’t like Valentines Day. We fucking LOVE a day dedicated to romance, we just don’t want to be disappointed, so we put up a thin shield of protection, call it a co-opted holiday and get on with it. This thin shield is raised many times in a “Mother’s day”. For little insignificant things, like when the kids don’t like the lunch we make them. It’s raised for the medium sized things, like when the spouse is 10 min late from work again and that means we just tipped over the edge into cray (or it’s because you don’t have a spouse and people who complain about spouses being 10 min late should be stabbed); and we raise it for the big things, like when you don’t fucking honour your mother. I’m going to get really extreme now. Mother’s Day is the most important day of the year. It requests us to…
I don’t have a problem saying No.
My parents tell me it was my first word.
No. Way. Man. was the first phrase to be exact.
I have really good boundaries.
“No. I don’t want to”.
“Maybe next time”.
My newest piece as read on the fantastic online Magazine Beams and Struts. Vaginal weight lifting class
I have this thing on my eye, both of them actually. Its this flap of skin that folds down over the lid, so for example when I am putting eyeshadow (for a play, never in real life) on the crease of my lid where the flap folds over the eyeball part there is always this line of makeup that gets caked up inside. I also notice that the flap loosens near the end of my eye and there is a small pocket of flesh that is now always drooping down. The flap is big enough that I could push a kernel of corn into it and the skin pocket would hold the kernel in place. I am complaining about this to a friend and she tells me it is a sign of aging. She tells me that my face is falling. I see for the first time how a woman would want pay exorbitant amounts of money to have a doctor slice off some of the excess. This is not a wisdom line, it is not a laugh line, it is a flap of skin over my eyeballs that can hold snacks for later. I have decided. No more judgements on women who tighten and tuck. No more silent shaming about their inability to accept themselves. I had no fucking clue it would be this hard to get old and i haven’t even had a kid yet. I’m still waiting for that beautiful train wreck. When the time comes I too will go to Thailand for some medical tourism. I will ask for help when I need it. I will age gracefully. Just watch me.