On the second Sunday in May the forecast is always the same… a 100 percent chance of showers. No, I’m not talking about a cadre of clouds spilling over the Sierras and dumping its usual tepid amount of participation on this vast wasteland, I’m talking about the showering of flowers from my two kids and their hollow praise that I’m the best Mommy in the world. Now I love my kids more than a Kardashian loves publicity, but I wish they would just stop. After all, if they only knew I wish this had never happened.
To say my kids were a mistake is just the slightest of understatements, like the Titanic hitting the iceberg was just a little mistake by the captain. I had plans. Big plans that were going to set the world ablaze and give me financial security by the time I turned thirty. Instead, it was torn to bits in one regrettable night, or perhaps it was a magical night. You see, everything surrounding motherhood and Mother’s Day creates a whirlwind of conflicting emotions for me. Bringing my daughter into this world was one of the greatest days in my life… and one of the worst. I know it doesn’t make any sense. Of course, nothing has made sense since I found out I was pregnant, I wasn’t ready. Certainly the three-toed sloth I call my ex-husband wasn’t ready. Unfortunately, or fortunately, it happened and here I am listening to my wonderful kids express how wonderful I am. All of these platitudes are making me sick to my stomach, and the ten-pound box of chocolates they gave me is not going to help.
