I guess that’s what happens when your kids don’t have thumbs, are generally unaware of most Hallmark holidays, and, oh, are dogs.
If you’ve never had ringworm, you are missing out. And if you’ve never had ringworm in your freakin’ armpit? Well, you simply have not lived. The combination of itching and no deodorant means I am one hot mama. Bow-chica-bow-wow!
Fungus or not, I woke up on Mother’s Day snuggling with my little 9-pound dachshund. And the first thought that popped into my head was, “This is a creature of God, and he is entrusted into my care.” It was lovely.
And then he jumped off the bed and peed on the floor.
It was a nice precursor to the ringworm.
Leading up to Mother’s Day, there was a lot of noise about folks who are disenfranchised by the holiday. Anne Lamott revisited her Why I Hate Mother’s Day article. And this lovely post begged churches to include all women / caregivers / maybe-officially-moms-maybe-not in their acknowledgements.
This was my first Mother’s Day knowing that I am unable to have kids. I watched myself carefully, like I had been exposed to some horrible Mother’s-Day-is-gonna-make-you-sad virus, and was looking for signs of illness.
Mostly? Mostly, I was just fine.
Mostly, I was annoyed at the comments to the kindhearted post about including all mama-types. Some of the comments veered dangerously into “How dare you marginalize vegan non-gendered parents of foster guinea pigs” territory. Because we need to include everybody in everything all the damned time.
Mostly, I felt like channeling my mom, specifically after she’s spent time with her Minnesota sister and has a bit of a hearty-northerner accent: “Oh, may-eh gayyyyyy-ud. Get a grip.”
Mostly, I was speechless when a pal told me she felt “so, sooooo baaaaaad” for me and my lack o’ fertility. Evidently, I have a sad, sorry little life. Evidently, I am pathetic.
But mostly? Oh may-eh gayyyyyy-ud. Get a grip. Moms got flowers and kids waking them up. I got extra sleep and ringworm. It’s all fine.