Sunday, May 08, 2005

Happy Mother's Day


Happy Mother's Day! As always with holidays and birthdays, I'm late with cards and gifts and such, but I notice on my calendar that Fête des Mères is not celebrated in France and Quebec until May 29, so I figure I'm within the grace period created by ambiguous and conflicting international holidays. Thank goodness for the dilatory French and their belated toasts to motherhood.

Today, we celebrate the women who grunted us into being, nourished us to maturity, soothed our wounds, comforted us in sickness, confiscated our drugs, embarrassed us in front of friends, and unintentionally promoted the beautiful spectrum of neuroses we will bear with us to the grave. Once a year, in recognition of their grace and martyrdom, we take time out to say, "Thanks, mom, for squandering what could have been the most creative and productive years of your lives on us, your sniveling, unworthy children. Here's a plate — the buffet table is over there. Go nuts."

In recognition of this day and the obscene glory of Motherhood, I recommend that everyone visit Loretta at Gone Feral, where we find one of the few "Mommy Blogs" worth reading. Where else can you find such an acute summary of motherhood and its carnivalesque implications?
I guess I ate too much pepper jack cheese the other day. Or maybe it was the garlic-stuffed olives.

My habits as well as my personal hygiene (and, you know, any sense of shame about writing this stuff publicly) have deteriorated since going feral, and I've picked up quite a few new bad habits along the way, as well as encouraged all the old bad ones to grow bigger. To wit:

1. Pre-feral: Sometimes dug in nose without a tissue handy.
Post-feral: Nursing is mama's special nose pickin' time.

2. Pre-feral: Sometimes dressed hastily.
Post-feral: Left the house in a shirt with a broken zipper. Discovered that I'd been walking around with my beller hanging out exposed all morning after ducking into Jimmy John's to take a hot shit. No wonder they looked at me like I was homeless.

3. Pre-feral: Flossed occasionally, usually after looking at E.'s teeth. Or hell, just being in E.'s aura.
Post-feral: Flossing is for pussies.

4. Pre-feral: Figured no one would notice if I wore the same pants two days in a row.
Post-feral: Laundry is for pussies.

5. Pre-feral: Sometimes ate odd combinations of things, especially if in hurry.
Post-feral: No meal is complete without olives and cheese. Wash down with a tall glass of O.J.
Gone Feral is a land stripped of illusions — motherhood without the bullshit ideology. Now that's good motherin'!