For Mother’s Day, I finally figured out what to get my mom after all these years — an apology, or rather 16 apologies for the silly, the crazy and the often stupid stuff I did during my childhood, adolescent and teenage years. Now seems like the perfect time to come clean and make amends.
Let’s get started at the very beginning.
Being born: You were drugged unconscious while I was dragged out of you with forceps at 7 pounds, 11 ounces. Ouch, right? Sorry, I can’t even imagine how difficult it was to recover from that!
1 month old: You started using a cloth diaper service and each diaper I pooped in you had to wash out in the toilet. I apologize; that must have been disgusting.
2 years old: I grabbed your boob in public, because I saw another child do it to her mom. Only problem: I wasn’t breastfeeding, I was bottle fed. So sorry.
3 years old: I pulled away from you and ran straight to a stray dog yelling “doggie” while you charged after me and grabbed me away just as the “nice doggie” lunged at me. You must have been so scared.
5 years old: I played with my grandfather’s prized watch and afterward, as he called it “a bimble a here, a bimble a there,” his prized watch lay in broken pieces. Sayonara heirloom.
7 years old: I played staircase Olympics with my sister and we both tried to jump three and then four steps at a time. I’m sure you were convinced that we were going to hurt ourselves, although we never did.
9 years old: My sister and I would play games at night which involved switching bedrooms, reading with a flashlight under the covers, giggling, meeting in the hallway, jumping up and down and playing cards in front of our doors. When you heard our “loud” noises you would charge up the stairs and shout, “Get to bed.” I have a 6-year-old now. I get it. The importance of bedtime for her, and the importance of downtime for you. Sorry I disturbed it with my games.
10 years old: My grandmother, who I adored, would sneak me huge bars of chocolate, and told me to hide them from you against your wishes. Sorry I sided with grandma, who used my love of chocolate to defy you.
11 years old: Since I was a chocoholic, I would always have a sugar-laden snack when I got home from school. One day I came home and there was no chocolate in the house. I had a raging fit and carried on until you went out and bought me a Hershey’s bar.
12 years old: I would get annoyed when people would say how much alike we looked, and you would point out how much taller than you I was. I thought you were very beautiful and did not think I looked anything like you. When people pointed it out I just felt inferior and like a geek. I should have just accepted the compliment and been grateful.
13 years old: I yelled at you and acted disrespectful because I was being an adolescent and trying to push boundaries.
14 years old: I played a game I made up called “concoction” and got sick and then vomited all over the house from a mixture of ketchup, soda, pickle juice, peanut butter and salt.
15 years old: You found weed in my room and I told you I was holding it for a friend. Don’t worry, mom, it was for medicinal reasons.
16 years old: You would accompany me to voice lessons and I told you not to talk to my voice teacher because I felt you were taking the attention away from me.
17 years old: Without calling you (and before the age of cell phones so you couldn’t reach me easily), I stayed out too late one night and you had to drive over to my friend’s house to get me. I really had no idea how scared you must have been that something had happened to me.
18 years old: I would get annoyed when I’d come home late at night from a date and the minute I’d walk in the door you’d say “Thank God.” Now, it’s easy for me to imagine saying the same thing when my daughter starts going on dates.
So I get it, mom. I get all of it. And I apologize.
Happy Mother’s Day! I love you!
Updated by Bethany Ramos on 4/14/2016