To My Mother on Mother’s Day

I was reading the Huffington Post this morning, and they had a picture entitled, “Things We Always Wanted to Tell Mom.” The picture was a woman holding a sign that said, “I broke that mirror in the living room in 1995.” So Mom, here are some things that I’ve always wanted to tell you:

That time I told you that my friends and I only sneaked out to the golf course to see what sneaking out was like? That was a lie. We went to a party.

I did know they were drinking in the garage the night that the cops showed up while you were in Canada and the entire softball team was inside the house.

I still wish you would have let me get a letterman's jacket.

I know you did a lot of chain smoking and pacing on account of me and my stupid decisions. I'm sorry.

I can’t believe that you didn’t wring my neck when I was a teenager; I would have.

I would never admit it to you, but I always thought that you were the coolest mom around, and I always bragged about you to my friends.

I got my love of adventure, my ability to swear colorfully and to make a fantastic meal out of what I find in the fridge from you.

I always have to wipe down the counter before I consider the kitchen completely clean, just like you taught me.

You have no idea how much it meant to me that you went in and demanded to know why I didn’t get into Honor Society, despite having some of the best grades in my class. Even though people hated the fact that the next year there was a huge application process to join, I was glad you did it.

I like the fact that you ride a Harley and swear like a truck driver. It makes you unique.

I'm always a little jealous at how many people talk about how much they enjoy your part of the Fraser Family Christmas letter.

Thank you for always being excited for me when I wanted to go live across the world, and for never asking me when I’m going to settle down. It just shows that you know me better than most people ever will.

We take our moms – and our dads – for granted most of our lives; before we can even lift our heads up they are giving up their nights to feed and change us; their financial resources to clothe us; their independence to be there for us. In return, we scream at them, slam doors in their faces, tell them we hate them then hold out our hands for money from them. They chauffeur us, buy us expensive prom clothes, and patiently bear the brunt of our nasty moods when our hormones are raging like the Seven Seas. I’m not quite sure why most saints are people who have never had children, because I think having children requires a saintliness that should not be underestimated.
So thanks, Mom, for being there, even when I told you that I didn’t need you. I could never have made it this far without you.



Love and fantastically mothered kisses,
Morgan