I found this on Craig's List. I copied it and saved it. I hope you like it. It is a response to a mother who whined that Mother's Day was another day of work for her and she wonders when she is going to be pampered. The response is wonderful!
Original Post:
"I am spending my day taking my mother and mother-in-law out to eat. When is it my turn? I'm a mother too. This is the one day of the year your kids are supposed to thank you for being their mother and we are spending it making a fuss over the grandmothers. At least no one expects me to cook today!"
When is it your turn?
Lady, every DAY is your turn. In fact--and I don't think I'm alone, here--Mother's Day is probably one of the most worthless holidays on the calendar. Yeah. That's right. Worthless. A crock. A farce. Less useful than an armless hooker with lock-jaw.
It's like this:
Every time I go to the grocery store, I have to relinquish the good parking spaces to pregnant women and "customers with children." (These spaces, by the way, are always empty, but you can bet your stretchmarked [censored] that if I tried to park there, I'd be instantly surrounded by a shrieking horde of sanctimonious matrons demanding I pee into a cup while their various unruly broods wiped their filthy hands all over my car and kicked me in the shins.)
In restaurants, blank-faced infant factories self-righteously insist that their ill-mannered progeny should be entitled to scream banshees into quivering submission because they're CHILDREN, god damn it. How dare you not get on your knees and lick me right here! CHILDREN are the FUTURE, you disrespectful fuckwad, and if my little howler monkey wants a piece of your chicken, you'd better [censored] give it to him! (God bless America, Praise Jesus, vote Dubya.)
In a department store, if I see some insane parent screaming at her six-month-old to just SHUT UP! while jerking her terrified three-year-old to her side, I'M the belligerent [censored] who should just Mind Her Own [censored] Business if I call security on her psychomaniacal fat [censored].
They can't say "[censored]" on TV because the Tight-[censored] Mothers of America insist that their precious babies are still recovering from the time a nanosecond's viewing of Janet Jackson's nipple burned their scleras out. These are often the same mothers who whip their titties out in public so that their obese little leeches can feed, all the while demanding that the rest of us just suck it up and deal because breasts are natural and my widdle woogums can gnaw on my oft-abused frying pans any time he wants. Now put on some clothes, young lady; that cleavage is shameful and Jesus would not approve!
Every thirty seconds, some petulant mothers' association is demanding we sterilize all forms of media, make all public places child-friendly--even ones not designed for children--give them more parking spaces, more discounts, more leeway, more money, more sympathy. God forbid we actually monitor what our kids watch, hire babysitters when we want to go out and get wasted, or walk that extra twenty feet to the front door of Wal-Mart! That would be, like, WORK or something.
But you know what? We do it. Those of us who will never have children will pay taxes for schools that won't educate your kids because you get your elephantine Hanes lodged in your colons every time some teacher DARES to make your little genius actually learn something, or when some idiot principal suggests your little miracle be held personally responsible for [censored]-slapping Johnny Straight-A Student (who is only that way because of favoritism, of course, and not because HIS parents actually make him turn off the TV and read an hour a day). We will keep our mouths closed every time you fly off the handle in the supermarket because we made it to the express line before you and your three shrieking infants did. We'll probably even let you in front of us just to shut you the hell up. We will politely nod and painfully smile when you thrust your bulging abdomens at us in the office and tell us your fetus just had its first intra-uterine fart, then seize our wrists and place our hands against your swollen paunches so that we can feel the miracle of AN ANIMAL MOVING INSIDE OF YOU. We will then politely retreat to the bathroom so that we don't vomit all over the brand-new $200 maternity dress your husband bought you because, well, he impregnated you, and whether he admits it or not he knows he pretty much owns you now anyway.
I realize that procreation is necessary to continue the race. The fact that I'd sooner tear my own uterus from my body, throw it on a fire, and dance naked around it under a full moon with my arms outflung in maniacal delight does not negate my understanding the fact that most women want to be mothers, that lots of women SHOULD be mothers, that plenty of women--like my own mom--are superb mothers who should have every right to assemble and beat the exponentially increasing masses of clueless baby-factories into comas.
But I'm sick and [censored] tired of hearing about how mommies don't get respect, recognition, oral, etc. You know what? Being a mother isn't about validation. It isn't about the payback. From the first time you wake up, roll over, and vomit, you relinquish all your rights to gratitude. Your progeny will enter the world red-faced and screaming, and they'll be red-faced and screaming until they move out and take the car with them. Even then, they'll want your money, and you're pretty much obliged to give it to them EVEN AFTER YOU DIE.
Once in a while, he'll sobbingly curl in your lap for comfort, and you'll soothe him into sleep and maybe he'll tell you before he dozes off how much he loves you, Mommy. Then he'll drool on your skirt.
Maybe, when she's graduating magna cum laude from Harvard and you're standing there, luminescent with pride and heavy with more than a touch of regret that you never did better than your A.A., she'll seize you around the middle and say she couldn't have done it without you, Mom. Then she'll ditch you to go get drunk with her buddies, including that boyfriend you absolutely cannot stand.
And that's your gratitude. That's all the gratitude you get. This is the contract you signed. You were kidding yourself if you thought it would be anything else, if you were entering into motherhood and thinking you could still be selfish.
Even so, our whole society revolves around your needs. Those of us who plan to maintain our selfish lifestyles until our dying days pay for you, make concessions for you, take your condescension and ill-placed pity when you rudely insist we'll change our minds someday--assuming you haven't already lapsed into an epileptic seizure from your inability to comprehend the concept that not everyone wants to live like you do. But it's not enough for you.
And even you, dear poster--despite the fact that you think you deserve some kind of attention for procreating, you're not even willing to give your mother and mother-in-law the same courtesy without complaining. And I'll bet THEY never asked for anything.
Mother's Day really does suck.
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