Your mum: you should be grateful for her because there is a fair chance you ruined her titties. Some women have also confided that straight after childbirth their lady-parts looked like a papaya that had been mauled by a pitbull. My son was born via caesarian, so I can’t vouch for that, but I can confirm the breast situation. I mean, those puppies used to laugh in the face of gravity, and now the joke is on them as they live out the rest of their years like empty socks. What can you do but let that shit go?
In truth, motherhood is a lifetime of letting go, a lifetime of loving little people more than yourself, a lifetime of putting others first. That sounds more unappealing than skid-marks but it is bloody beautiful. When it’s the middle of the night, and a small, trembling voice calls for Mamma, you would love nothing more than to bury your face in the pillows and continue dreaming about Jamie Foxx’s peen, but right now, that voice means more than your own, so up you get with warmth.
Or at the park, watching on as your tiny human leaps down the slide, and you’re packing your panties with faeces because you know the line between falling and flying is a thin one. Then there are the times when that little person you are shaping makes choices that are so lovely, and you are again reminded of the great responsibility you have. Every time my son cuddles a dog, is overwhelmed by sadness for another’s suffering, or makes a fart joke, I pat myself on the back and revel in my leadership.
Mums aren’t saints though, they can be as annoying as a synthetic g-string, there’s no doubt about it. Like every time I go and stay at my parents’ house, and Mum asks me at breakfast time what I’m doing for dinner. It’s 7am, Mum, go away. I cheese my son off, too. For example, when he is more than happy to go about his business with a giant log of his own excrement resting in his Huggies, yet I insist on making him stop playing with his trucks so I can change his nappy because I don’t want his ring-piece to end up resembling a scorched almond. Despite these pest factors, the beauty of a mother is undeniable. Their love and their lessons are some of the big things that make us who we are.
There was a silly moment between Mum and me that I will never forget. I was 13 and had just seen a dentist who insisted I needed braces. We left the dentist quietly with the sort of palpable tension you would expect between Jennifer Aniston and Angelina Jolie (except without the shared sexual partner history, I mean, she’s my mum so that would be weird). As we nestled our butts into the car, my mum said, “Shannon, I think we should consider the braces”. I seethed, but it was with some desperation rather than anger. “Mum, I have frizzy hair and pimples, do I really have to have braces too?”. A brief moment of silence was broken by my mum softly speaking, “No, you don’t.” Fast forward to the present day, some may look at my slightly bucked teeth and think my dear mother made a terrible mistake. She didn’t. That moment of tenderness my mother showed me was indicative of our relationship: one of respect and autonomy.
The burden and privilege of motherhood is a powerful one. It comes at a great cost but gives a multitude of rewards, kind of like a good Brazilian wax. Today’s society can be harsh on mothers, where advice and opinions are disseminated without care. Especially in internet-land where dickbeetles can hide behind keyboards and impart their cutting critiques. It’s not welcome or necessary because every mother does the best she can with what she has at the time – their hearts are huge. When it comes to mothers: may we always support them, may we always cherish them, may we always respect them, may we always value them and may we always love them. So, show your mothers some kindness this Mothers’ Day, but don’t just pull that mother-loving shit out once a year, you cheeky monkeys. After all, she gave up her excellent titties for you.
Mothers: you are wonderful and you are important. Happy Mothers’ Day to you all.
Whats the best thing about your mum?