On Mother’s Day and the Phoenix who Danced on Tables

Dear Loinspawn,

Try to imagine a young couple in a dirty club. It’s four in the morning and the establishment wants to close, but the girl is having too much fun dancing on tables, whilst the boy is begging the bartender for one last whiskey. Imagine an hour previously, the boy was dragging the same girl, screaming out of the men’s bathroom, because some drunken guy picked a fight with her.

Now stretch your imagination even further across time and space and watch this girl transform into a gorgeous woman who has truly become the world’s best mother. It’s been years since your mother has danced on a table and I no longer have to carry her out of men’s bathrooms, but she has lost none of her spirit. Now I watch her, every day, pouring it into you.

Today is Mother’s Day. For the rest of your life, this will be the most significant day of celebration. I can only hope that by the time you read this, you’ll have realised that Father Christmas is a stingy old alcoholic who steals money from your parents, the Easter Bunny is actually an alien in cahoots with Cadbury’s and that your birthday is no more than a lame excuse to party; let’s be honest, all you did was survive another year. You survived, because your parents, especially your mother, looked after you.

And that is why Mother’s Day IS special. When you read this letter you will finish it and find your mother. I don’t care if you have to go into the afterlife to do it. (If, by some misfortune, that is where she is, you bribe that guy, whatsisname, Peter or John or some such saint to let you in. He has been standing there for a long time, so I suggest taking a pair of Crocs.)

No mountain, ocean, nor the unlikely phenomenon of a sharknado or a plane full of snakes, will stand between you and the woman that gave birth to you. You will walk, drive, fly or sail to her and when she opens the door, you will hug her, kiss her feet and make the inside of her house rain with flowers. You will bake her croissants for breakfast and take her out to the most expensive lunch you can afford. You will offer to work in the garden and take out the trash, (a trick your father is still trying to master). In fact, you will tell her that if she moves a muscle you will be forced to pin her to the chair beneath the weight of copious amounts of dark chocolate.

You will thank her for performing the greatest magic trick of all time: Squeezing a watermelon through a cucumber sized hole is the kind of David Copperfield shit not even David Copperfield can do. Don’t worry, one day you will stand next to your screaming, laboring wife, finding your religion because you think she is about to die, and then you will know exactly what I am talking about.

You will thank her profusely for waking up at ungodly hours of the night to feed you, sooth you and put you to sleep. You will show unending gratitude to her for all the silly faces she pulled to make you laugh and all the songs she sang to stop you crying. You will appreciate every time she wiped your ass and bathed you. And you will apologise for every time you peed in her face and the fresh set of baby clothes she was busy dressing you in. And you will love her for every time she picked you up and danced you to sleep; every time she chased whatever monster was bothering you back into the dark.

She burped you, helped you fart and turned her once perky breasts into mammoth milk making machines with stretch marks. The least you can do is make her a thank you card. MAKE, not BUY. It takes 30 seconds to swipe your credit card for some generic piece of shit that some Hallmark-type company churned out for people with guilty consciences and a lack of original thought.

And when I say MAKE, I’m not talking about a smiley face built with couple of pieces of macaroni stuck on a piece of cardboard. You will create for her the Sistine Chapel of Mother’s Day cards. She needs effort boy. She has earned it. In it you will thank her for sacrificing herself on the altar of altruism and rising from the ashes a selfless phoenix. And then you will apologise for all the grief and tears you caused her along the way.

Now if you will excuse me, I need to phone your grandmother and tell her I love her. I have a lifetime of tears and grief to apologise for, so it might take a while. In the mean time let’s make today special. Let’s give your mother a long afternoon nap. She deserves it. And I’ve got a funny feeling she might just say it’s the best present ever.

Regards,

P.S. It’s okay to date girls who dance on tables and pick fights in men’s bathrooms. Sometimes they make the best wives and even better mothers.