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Dear moms, mums, mommies, mommas and mudders. Happy Mother’s Day.

Shag the roses and pedicures, I think it’s time we mothers give one another a gift: some good old-fashioned honesty.

It’s time we told the mother frickin’ truth: WE ARE ONE JUDGMENTAL BUNCH OF PRICKS.

You know it’s true. We look at other mothers and roll our eyes at their utterly ridiculous parenting choices. I know this is true because I’ve heard it, and I’ve done it. But mostly I’ve heard it. Because I’m better than that. Mostly. Starting now.

“She put THAT on her kid… to wear to CHURCH? Repent, hillbilly!”

“She takes her kid to CHURCH? Good luck explaining the dinosaurs later, cross hugger.”

“I can’t believe she lets her kid talk to her like that. I’d have the mouth smacked off it.”

And forget the parenting; how critical we are of one another’s looks! As if our bodies haven’t been through enough, as if we weren’t expected to visually satisfy every penis-toter within a ten-mile radius, we have to also endure the scrutiny of our fellow babymakers.

“Look at the mom jeans on missus. You sure she had the baby already? Looks like they left the twin behind.”

“Look at the MILF. Spends more time on her hair and nails than with her kids, clearly.”

Strict or easygoing, fat or thin, religious or hellbound, we just can’t win. None of us. And we only have ourselves to blame. We are dicks without dicks.

We are mothers, for Christ sake! The half of the species that’s supposed to be made of love and sugar and clouds and pubes of the endangered giant panda! We’re pathetic.

And our cutthroat nature just doesn’t make sense. No matter who or where we are, we share the exact same challenge every day: to keep our kids alive and happy and, hopefully, not hating us. Shouldn’t we be hugging?

Let’s face it, none of us really knows what we’re doing. Because we never really know how the kid is going to turn out! Try as you may, your heir may still end up a debaucherous, sadomasochistic, cross-dressing, Nazi shit eater. (Ok that was extreme. But it’s Mother’s Day, I can say what I want. Honey – more tea with lemon! And why are there only 3 chocolate chips in this pancake? GAWD!)

Besides, there’s more than one way to skin a kid. Or raise a cat. Whatevs.

And there is no cookie cutter mom.

There is the mom who stays home and raises her kids. And there’s the mom who goes to work to make money to save for Disney World so when the kids get tired and cranky she can stand in front of the Magic Kingdom wielding one of those big turkey legs like a mace and scream, “I paid for this fucking trip you little bastards, now suck it up or the mouse gets it!”

There is the mom who thinks In the Night Garden is a creepy acid trip of a children’s show. And there’s the mom who thinks it’s pretty darn sweet. (Mother Blogger + Iggle Piggle Forever.)

There are moms who stare in awe at their beautiful sleeping babes. And there are moms who do this:

One thousand one... One thousand two...

There are moms who had difficult birthing experiences. And there are floosy skanks who didn’t.

There are moms who sing classic lullabies to their babes, and there are moms who sing stuff like this: Sweet Child O’ Mine

There are moms who co-sleep (how stupid?), and moms who let their kids cry themselves to sleep (how cruel?). #DamnedIfYouDon’tDamnedIfYouDo

Some moms make their kids colour inside the lines. And some moms are fun.

There is the mom who has undying patience. And there is the mom who goes into the next room and counts backwards from 20 while breathing into a brown bag so she doesn’t choke a bitch.

There are moms who don’t attempt breastfeeding at all. And there are moms who have school-aged kids who wash down their half rack of ribs with a swig off the ol’ tit.

Some moms are MILFS, and some moms have moustaches for optimal stash-stroking decision-making. “Why yeeees, (stroke stroke), I think I will sign Max (stroke) up for soccer this year (stroke stroke). Stupendous.”

Bottom line: No two mothers are created equal. Some have lived charmed lives with silver spoons and lucky ducks all in a row. And some are products of their own twisted childhoods, now just doing the best they know how without crapping their own pants. We’re all just trying to make it with the tools we’ve been given. I know mine could use some sharpening. I could also use another screwdriver. (Honey, we’re out of orange juice!)

Yes, even Ghetto Mommy pushing a stroller with one hand and holding a cigarette with the other, en route to play the slots in the back corner of Mr. Jim’s Pizza. Have mercy on her too. Some of her brains fell out with her teeth. Show her some understanding and, who knows, she might just cash out earlier and buy some vegetables for supper. Compassion is a powerful thing.

Truth is, we’re all twisted up in one way or another. Human pretzels in every shape, size and colour. The irony? It’s probably your mother’s fault. But it’s her mother’s fault. And her mother’s. And so on. The original blame ran down the leg of this mother:

mharrsch / Foter

 

Beyond being inevitably screwed, we share another common bond – we are all some child’s mother. The queen of his world, for all time. Nobody else truly gets this but us.

So let’s do one another a solid, sisters. Let’s cut each other some slack. (Not a vagina joke.) Today, while you’re loving and appreciating your own mother, show some respect for other mothers too. Mothers you don’t even know. (And yet you kinda do, don’t you?) Nothing says “we’re in this together, little mama” like a high five. No words, just palm on palm slaptastic action. Do it. Up top.

We’ve had no trouble opening our legs. Now let’s see if we can do the same with our minds.

Put down the gavel, Judge Judy. We’re all just women fumbling blindly into the Great Unknown, our doe-eyed youngsters in tow, hoping and praying we deliver them to the future in one piece. Two at the most. (Max, put down that chainsaw before you break something!)

 

 

 

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