The story goes: Boy meets Girl meets Girl meets Boy and they fall in love. Girl loses Boy loses Girl (a misunderstanding, infidelity, unforeseeable distancing, or that old saw "I need more space"). Then—viola! Boy and Girl get back together; there's romance, adventure, mystery. And the next thing, Girl's in a white dress with bridesmaids; Boy's in a tux with groomsmen. They say "I do" and go on a honeymoon; settle down, have beautiful and gifted children, and live happily ever after. The End.
What's generally left out of the story is that somewhere in that story, there's some steamy hot monkey love going on that creates those babies. Yes, somewhere along the way, Girl goes from virginal to vaginal and the result is—surprise—YOU (reminder: call your mother and wish her Happy Mother's Day, if you can)!
Way back, when we were wee bairn growing, dealing with our own selfish wants, needs, impulses, appetites, and egos, our moms and dads, while 'sleeping late' on Saturdays—as we boggled our wee minds with cartoons on the telly—were actually doin' the mambo boudoir upstairs, and the next thing you know, the stork has dropped Brother Clem down our chimney. What chimney you ask? Why, the same one that Santa uses! Simple. Or maybe mom went to the cabbage patch (where the Easter Bunny lives) and picked out Sister Sue. What did we know?
We rarely thought of our moms as sexual beings with the same drives and lusts that we come to think of as specifically unique to ourselves and our peer groups. We surmised that we had actually invented sex. Well, surprise again; whatever your parents didn't tell you about procreation, they were practicing (and sometimes perfecting). In fact, they were up to their stars and garters indulging in it! Upstairs! Behind your backs! While you were watching Elmer Fudd "twacking wabbits!" And having just as much fun as you do now, once you got the hang of it.
Yes, as eventually our hungers and hormones kicked in and we learned about sex from our friends and in the street; let it be known that mom (and dad) knew about it all along, unless she was in one of those relationships where "she cries alone at night too often/he smokes and drinks and don't come home at all," ("Only Women Bleed," Alice Cooper, 1975) and amazingly, even then, offspring often occurred.
Speaking of moms (and who isn't?), in most families I know, sex and procreation are hardly a dinner table conversation; I mean, how would mom bring up that subject? "Hey, Son, let's have a little talk about orifices." Or "Lois, did I tell you what I saw while visiting Uncle Sid's sheep farm?" All the while, she knew all about it, but couldn't bring herself to explain it to you; she probably couldn't picture Grandma getting it on with grandpa either. Don't fret, it runs in the family.
But we're not here to talk about the birds and the bees and your parent's sexual escapades. We're here to talk about Mother's Day and May and margaritas and mischief and all the mayhem that you're expected to bring into your life this month. It's springtime and your mind should be focused on pagan hedonistic tendencies and not your mama's uterus. However, let's get back to serious Mother's Day madness.
Anyone who has a mother knows that they come with a toolbox; the tool most apparent is her presence. Then comes nurturing, discipline, inspiration, critiquing, loving, spoiling, guilt tripping, educating, encouraging, sarcasm, and perfecting the look that says: "You're working my last nerve, Little Missy," and/or, "You're not leaving the house wearing THAT!"
In most cases, Mom was also there to wake you in the morning and offer you your Cheerios with milk and a pair of clean drawers to go with your clean clothes. She'll get you to school or wherever and go about her day, either going to work herself and/or planning the groceries, cleaning, laundry, appointments for the dentist, PTA (do they still have that?), staying in touch with family and friends, and seeing to your health, well-being, and soccer practice. She may want you to take music, dance, or diction lessons. She did all those things until she didn't. She wanted you to have better than she did. It's not so simple. She was not perfect. She wiped your bottom, your nose and your tears; she wrought you and she warped you. It's the Universal Mother Syndrome (UMS).
This Mother's Day, you'll beg for a brunch reservation at Chez Wha. She'll arrive dressed in Scarlett O'Hara taffeta; she'll be given a complimentary mimosa, a single rose, and a cramped table by the kitchen where she will stoically avoid telling you that she'd rather you had done a crawfish boil where she could relax in her festival chair and her Saints sweats, drink beer until she got stupid, and fall into an afternoon nap.
So, what do you really want to say to your mother on Mother's Day, who either: 1., scarfed down champagne and a candlelight dinner at Mario's Bistro; 2., role played The Sailor and The Slutty Barmaid while her roommate was on vacation; or 3., simply knocked off a piece for the hell of it on a Saturday morning, got "in the family way," and gave you life?
How about: "Mom, I'm sure I was no piece of cake. But, all things considered, you really didn't do such a bad job of raising me. I wouldn't be here without you. Thanks."
Note: sometimes your Dad filled the role of your Mom. Thank him, and Happy Mother's Day to ALL you mothers.