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Archive for March, 2012

Nobody’s Mother

It’s been a year since we adopted our furball, Remi, but I still do not feel led to call him my child.  I am his owner, his care-taker, and certainly one of two adults who care for him above all others.  But when people call me “Remi’s mom,” I do not swell with pride.  I shudder slightly.  And not because I hate children or don’t want to be a mother or because I have issues better dealt with by a professional therapist than a WordPress blog (none of those statements is totally false, let’s be real!….J/K, J/K, I don’t HATE children.  Geez.  Calm down.).  I shudder because I am NOT a mom.  I do not love someone despite their puke and poop.  I do not equate the life of my dog with the life of another human.  And if I ever have a kid, believe you me, I will totally shove you in front of a bus to save their life.  Because, HELLOOOOOO, as a mother, that would be my J-O-B.

For now, though, I delight in the chance to watch Project Runway marathons on my couch all day on Sunday and drink bloody Mary’s every Saturday.  This week, I was volunteering with a mentoring organization (I save the children.  Mainly I do it to put down other people and make them feel like their “charity work” of donating an extra bag of old sweat pants to the Goodwill is pathetic.  You’re welcome.).  A child asked if he could wrap part of his dinner to take home .  Another volunteer, the cutest, most eager, fresh, beautiful, blond-haired, blue-eyed,  quintessential, 20-year-old college student you could ever hope to meet, said, “I don’t know.  Ask Momma [my name].”  I looked at the child.  “Yes.  You can definitely wrap up that taco.”  I addressed the volunteer, “And thank you for the violent shove into motherhood.”  “You’re weclome,” she said, bright-eyed.  “You kind-of are their mother…you’re kind of like MY mother.”  I turned back to the kitchen sink where I was washing dishes, slayed, silent, and unable to fully comprehend the weight of her words.  Your mother.  MOTHER!?!?!?  I am !@#$ing 30 years old!  I am NOT. YOUR. MOTHER. I am literally not even old enough to be your mother.  I was in your SAME DECADE a MERE 46 days ago, Miss TINYFIRMTIGHT.  I dropped my shoulders.  I swallowed my disgust.  I turned around.

“Then, stand up straight and stop SLOUCHING,” said Someone’s Someday Mother.

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