Monday, May 11, 2009

Dear M.O.M.

Photo: August, 2007

Column: May, 2006 (The same month I met my husband)

Dear M.O.M. (Mother Of Mine),

You always dreamed about the day I'd prance down the aisle in a big white fluffy dress, keeping time with the organ music. When I reached the end of the aisle I'd pause to make the biggest commitment of my life, and you'd stand there watching with tears of joy in your eyes.

Today, your dream came true. Only you weren't there. If you had been, you would have been ashamed to see me wearing a white cotton t-shirt and keeping time to the Hanes song, "You Can't Over-LoveYour Underwear". That's right -- I was walking down the aisle. The Wal-Mart aisle.

And I was making the second biggest commitment of my life: choosing a Mother's Day card.

Now this may seem like a simple task to you. What you don't understand is that I have what doctors call "Greeting Card A.D.D." It's life-threatening. If I spend too much time on the Greeting Card aisle, I gradually go insane and start knocking shelves onto innocent bystanders. You know the type of bystanders I'm talking about. The ones who cry when they read Hallmark cards.

I cry when I read Hallmark cards, too. But that's only because I can't seem to find the right one for you. I can't figure out whether I want the card to be funny, or nice, or downright sappy. So I bounce from one card to another. Don't they make a mixture of all three moods? Perhaps my problem isn't Greeting Card A.D.D. after all -- perhaps it's Multiple Card Disorder. Yes, that must be it.

So I hope you don't mind the fact that you won't be getting a Mother's Day card this year. It's not that I didn't try. It's just that the nice man in the little blue Wal-Mart vest escorted me back down the aisle. And right out the front door. And asked me never to come back.

I guess your dream of watching me walk down the aisle won't come true any time soon -- even the Wal-Mart aisle. In the meantime, Happy Mother's Day, Mother Of Mine. I love you.

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I know all about waiting--for the right guy, for high school to end, for my boobs to come in (two out of three ain't bad).

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