please pass the wine

dear ungrateful children who call me mother,

i know it seems like i’m here to serve your every whim, but let me be the first to set the record straight.

i HAVE to take care of you. i don’t necessarily WANT to…all the time, or on weekends, or during prime time television. we all make sacrifices–get used to it.

if i don’t “meet your needs” then the state of texas will send you to live somewhere else and i will only get to visit on weekends. don’t tempt me.

but let’s clear up what the phrase “meet your needs” actually means…to me. and because i’m the oldest and the only one with a credit card and a driver’s license, my vote is the only one that counts.

you older ones text me regularly (while you’re supposed to be in class) and ask me to bring you lunch. not lunch like from taco bell, but lunch from the trendy sushi restaurant where every dish begins in the double digits. the only person who gets to spend $30 on lunch will be me. and i am smart enough to keep it from the husband. i certainly don’t need you coming home bragging to the big guy that mom brought you sushi. i can dig my own holes, thank you very much.

you also dump your laundry off in front of the washing machine as you’re flying out the door to go with your friends. in the past i’ve always put your smelly clothes in the machine, added the soap and turned it on–but no more. from now on, if you leave it there, it stays there, unwashed and molding. and here’s a question i need answering–why do your clothes smell like a boys’ locker room? you better not be going in there! boys are icky gross and usually have fungus on their feet–and on their…well, you know. do you want to get fungus? i’m just sayin.

now you little ones are no better. i do not want to wipe your butt, scratch your butt, or kiss your butt–so stop asking! i mean, your butt is smelly for obvious reasons, and why you want me to pay so much attention to it is a little unsettling. yes, e-man, i’m talking to you. i love that you love mommy, but i prefer to NOT scratch your butt. i will gladly scratch your back, but not at 2 in the morning. please stop waking me up.

i do not enjoy that you come in my room around 1am every night–to MY side of the bed, and poke me in the arm until i wake up. it’s a good way to get smacked. for all i know you’re a burglar–proceed with caution. my question is, what’s wrong with waking up your dad? why is it always me? if you want to sleep in our bed, go to the bottom, crawl under the covers, and go to sleep! see how simple that is? there’s no need to wake me up at all! climb in and shut up! no more poking. got it?

oh, you laugh middle schooler. but here’s what i have to say to you. you’re a beating. the day you turned 13 you became some other alien life force that i don’t even recognize anymore. you suck most days and your attitude is the absolute WORST! you seem to have a scowl permanently fashioned on your once pretty face and i got news for you—it ain’t attractive. i miss the girl who used to think i was the coolest mom on the planet. now i wish you would live somewhere else until you snap out of it. here’s a tip: uncross your arms and soften your ever furrowed brow and stop telling me i’m not funny. cuz i am funny and you know it.

littlest one, i adore you, you know that. but you changing your clothes 14 times a day is taking a toll on me. you tell me to pick out your outfit and then throw a fit when it’s not the one you want to wear. PICK OUT YOUR OWN CLOTHES! and stop obsessing about how your food is arranged on your plate. ps. i’m sorry your dad has messed you up. i had such high hopes for you. oh well, good luck in therapy.

aahhhhh, i feel so much better. please read this…memorize it…live it.

you’re welcome.

signed,
your loving mother

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