An Anti-Ode to Dear Old Mom


A riff and an anti-ode on the word: MOTHER**

M is for the many moods of my mother. Her temperamental moods are like an ever changing current pounding upon the shoreline of my psyche, pulling me into the undertow and attempting to drown me in her deep sea of discontent. From my mother I get my moodiness, charisma, nice teeth and angry nature that I try to diffuse with the sense of humor she also gave me. 3 out of 5 isn't too bad.

O is for the outrageous things she has said to me over my 48 years of life. In response to my recent telling her that we are trying to make plans to build our family, her response was, "Better you than me. Raising kids is a big responsibility. Well, that's, well, Whatever... Better you than me." Nice. Since she shirked her responsibility and I raised myself, I think I may do a fine job when my chance comes along in the future.

T is for the tragedy and the tears. My life story is the kind of tale, that "You couldn't make up..." a friend often says to me. My mother/daughter complex issues might make an excellent sitcom, all that's needed is a laugh track, a wacky, boozy side kick, the nosey neighbor from down the street and the fabulous & gorgeous gay guy best friend. Oh, wait, these characters really did exist in my childhood life story. Motherhood and the maternal instinct gene are not present in her DNA. Joan Crawford and Euripides's, Medea, were better parents. Good thing I choose to find the humor in my upbringing, otherwise, I'd have jumped off the South Street Bridge years ago.

H is for the hives I get, the hell I feel I'm in and for the horrible things I think after I hang up the phone after I talk to her. Is it too late for me to be adopted or fostered?

E is for the egregious lack of respect my mother bestows upon me. She is still in denial that she has a daughter who is over 40. My mother believes that she herself is still in her late 30's. That would make me not even born yet. Forget about the gleam in my father's eye, he and it died over 35 years ago.

R is for the role reversal story I have lived through. I raised myself and became self reliant at an early age. At the age of eight, I was left alone for an extended period of time while my mother vacationed outside of the continental USA. She frolicked on some distant pink sanded beach and I became adept at subterfuge and fibbing. I used to pretend to call home to "ask permission" to stay over at a friends house for dinner or for a sleep-over. All I wanted was a normal life, a decent packed lunch box and a snack waiting for me when I got home from school. I think I watched too many reruns of The Brady Bunch and Leave it to Beaver.

Put them all together and they spell - THERAPY! Thank god for being able to pay for my way to a happier tomorrow.

**My apologies to the creator of the original, M is for the many things she gave me song from 1915.

Comments

  1. I'm right there with you, Denine. I freakin' hate this holiday. You never stop second guessing yourself after what we experienced, but I know we are 10x better parents than they were.
    xob

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