I’m writing you this letter because I fear the true meaning of Mother’s Day is being lost. Each year I see my friends (as well as famous people I wish were my friends) share heavily filtered photos of their mums alongside cringeworthy captions, ie: “To my very own Kris Jenner, the ultimate Momager! I love you!”
It seems Mother’s Day has become about who can get the most likes— everyone knows a throwback pic of #Mum&Me is guaranteed to hit double digits (at least).
Now we both know you don’t need any editing (maybe she’s born with it, maybe it’s Maybelline), but rather than post a happy snap, I’d like to dust off a memory that symbolises Mother’s Day to me.
Let’s rewind to the early 2000s when I was still wearing shell necklaces and carrying around that puppy fat you promised me would “just drop off, darling, don’t worry.” We were holidaying in Surfers Paradise with a few other families and a kids’ day out to Wet & Wild had been organised. The only problem was, I hadn’t been invited. Deep down inside my chubby chest, I felt my heart break.
Despite the fact you hated theme parks, you took me there for a mother-and-son day. I remember smiling as I squeezed into a rash shirt. We rode every ride, lined up in every line, ate food that was overpriced and undercooked. It was the best day. That memory proves to me that you
would do anything (including spend a day among screaming wet children) for your kids. Also, if I recall correctly, you gave those other mothers a serve when we got back to the hotel. Maybe you’re more like Kris Jenner than I first thought ...
Happy Mother’s Day, Mum, thanks for having my back.
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