Today is Mother's Day. It says so right here on my calendar. And in consideration of that fact, I'd like to wish . . . Hey, wait a minute . . . Is that a typo? Mother's Day? As in one itty-bitty 365th of a human year? Excuse me, but that seems pretty chinchy, when you consider how important moms are in the grand scheme of things. I mean, why not a Mother's Week? Or perhaps a Mother's Fortnight, or even a Mother's Month? Don't folks care about their moms more than once a year? Heck, I think about my own at least twice every single day. And believe me, if I knew where she was, I'd be so nice to her it would make your teeth itch.
Someone needs to start a petition to fix this travesty. But who do you write to get stupid holiday mistakes corrected? Well, that's above my pay-grade, I imagine. And bureaucracies being what they are, even if I knew how to go about it, it would probably take a while. For now, let me just wish all of you mothers out there a wonderful . . . uh . . . Day.
I'll close with a poem that M taught me. He says when he was a little jug-eared kid he'd sometimes vacation at a family retreat, a hunting cabin near Inglis, Florida. And one of his favorite memories of the place is that on the back of one of the bedroom doors was a plaque with these lines printed on it:
A POEM TO ME MUDDER
When me prayers were poorly said,
Who tucked me in me widdle bed,
And spanked me till me ass was red?
Who took me from me cozy cot
And put me on me ice-cold pot,
And made me pee when I could not?
And when the morning light had come,
And in me crib me dribble some,
Who wipe me tiny widdle bum?
Who would me hair so neatly part,
And hug me gently to her heart,
And sometimes squeeze me till me fart?
Who looked at me with eyebrows knit,
And nearly had a king-size fit,
When in me Sunday pants me shit?
And when at night the bed did squeak,
Me raised me head to have a peek,
Who yelled at me to go to sleep?
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