A Last-Minute Mother’s Day Letter

To My Dearest Mother,

Boy, have the times changed? When Mother’s Day rolled around, I used to whip out my Crayolas and take paper out of Dad’s printer to make you a card that would make Vladimir Putin weep. But here I am, procrastinating a buttload of work that’s stacked next to me in my cube, composing a new message in Outlook to you for this wonderful day in May.

I know, you wish I could come home. I wish I could, too. Thanks Obama, your crippling job market landed me in an entry-level position almost 200 miles away from my home. Sure, I could probably get up early, drive all the way down, hand-deliver you a nice bouquet of flowers, and sit at the table with the rest of the family, but I would literally only be able to stay an hour, and I get tired pretty easily these days. And there’s playoff hockey this weekend. #FOMOH is real, and my anxiety peaked since Tuesday night.

No, Mom, that is a hashtag, not a pound sign.

But I digress. I truly wrote this letter because you deserve to know how much I care about you. Your upbringing and strong Christian morals have shaped me from a 9-pound, 6-ounce piece of clay into a loyal, responsible, and averagely built man. I’m doing well at my “big boy” job–I’ve been here almost a year now. They even gave me a “performance bonus.” Can you believe that horseshit? Sorry ma’am, I’ll go put two squirts of Dial in my mouth.

Yes, I’m still smoking, but I only do it occasionally when I drink–which, yes, I’m only doing on the weekends. Yes, I’m still single. It’s a work in progress. No, I never asked out Hannah from First Baptist–she’s not really my type. I know she’s sweet and she’s a cute blonde, but I didn’t really see the compatibility. No, “slutty” isn’t my type, as my tastes are refined now–and plus, that was one time! You didn’t have to come up to my dorm room that one time freshman year. I’m sorry you had to see that. No, I don’t talk to that “hussy” anymore. Like I said, it was a one time thing. Yes mother, a one-night stand. Yes ma’am, you did raise me better than that.

Mom, what I’m trying to get across here in so many words is that I love you. I appreciate every little thing you’ve ever done for me. You raised me, you bathed, fed, and did metric tons of laundry for me. You drove me to those awful 4 a.m. swim practices and back again in the afternoons for a second session, even when your soap was on. That meant a lot to me–I know how much “As the World Turns” means to you.

No, I do not do that all the time! It was freshman year, she was a junior…there was rum punch and she just had a thing for tall guys, I guess. No, we’re not getting into that. Of course I used protection, Jesus. Sorry! No ma’am, I do not take the Lord’s name in vain–it slipped. Well, at that point in time, I thought I was going to die a virgin, let alone keep my sanity until marriage. Fine, I don’t care if you’re disappointed. And I can assure you that Hannah from First Baptist hasn’t waited either.

No, this wasn’t supposed to be hostile. Mom, take care of yourself. God knows I’ll have to cart you to a nursing home sooner or later. Yes, you can bring the dog, but you’ll have to leave your stainless banner doilies at home. I’ll bring them out when I visit. I also know you keep your rye in the vinegar bottle under the cabinet. That’s our little secret.

You’re going to get a package soon from Amazon (I swear it’s not from the jungle). It’s a TiVo, and it’ll record your TV shows when you’re at work, so you can watch them later. God knows I owe it to you, since I’ve vultured the Netflix for this long. And, of course, you can call when you can’t figure out how to set it up. Maybe I’ll come down in person for that ordeal.

Your Second Favorite Son,

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Living for the weekend.

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