Mark Atwood

I have friends who's mothers have called them up drunk at odd times. Mothers who institutionalized for the mentally ill. Mothers who blinded themselves to abuse. Mothers who abused. Mothers who are absent, or hated, or hateful. Mothers who treated their kids as nothing more than exchange tokens in Family Court. Mothers who's greatest positive contribution was bundle of chromosomes and 9 months in a womb, and not much of anything else. Mothers who loved boozing, 420, screwing around, and "protesting against The Man" more then their own kids.

In fact, most of my friends have, by my standards, mothers who mind-screamingly screwed up.

Not my mother.

My mother certainly wasn't perfect. She made mistakes, and a lot of times, the stresses of obligations toward house, church, and five intelligent, strong-willed, and slighly insane kids, took their toll on her.

But still, she did a better job and tried harder to do a better job, than most all of my friends' mothers.


Happy Mother's Day, wurtmann.


Enjoy your new roses.