Mom, you are not perfect. You have flaws like the rest of us. You are, however, generally a good person, so I love you despite the fact that you sometimes put work before your family. I love you despite the fact that you make me watch The Ten Commandments every Easter. And no, Mom, I do not want to watch The Sound of Music instead.


Mom, I am not perfect. When I got D in seventh grade algebra and told you it was a B because the principal made a typo, I really did get a D. The principals don’t type up the report cards. When the neighbors from up the streets were searching the woods around their houses for the “delinquents” who ding dong ditched them and I told you it was most likely Tony Bowen and his friends, it wasn’t. It was me and my friends who rang the neighbors’ doorbells and booked it out of there. The yellow stain on the carpet in the family room wasn’t from Harley; it was from a large cup of lemon Gatorade I happened to be transporting from the kitchen counter to the end table by the couch. The Gatorade didn’t make it to the table. Mom, I did try to flush silly string down the toilet when I was nine. That dent in your old convertible that cost two hundred dollars to fix didn’t come from a grocery cart. I hit it with a line drive. You should really park your car in the driveway, not the street. On my last day of tenth grade, a few friends and I left school halfway through the day and walked up Route 4 to Chessie’s for lunch. Don’t worry, Mom, we didn’t get hit by any cars. Your cat didn’t chase a butterfly into the pool; I wanted to see if he could swim. When you ask me to sweep the floor, I put all the crumbs and dust under the rug in front of the back door. I’ve had boys over when you told me I couldn’t have boys over. When you tell me to clean my room, I shove everything under the bed. When you tell me to turn my computer off before we leave for vacation, I only turn off the monitor.


I hate your tacos, Mom, they’re disgusting. I’m still mad at you for not showing up at my eighth grade school play. I’m also mad at you for not going to my chorus concert in sixth grade. I think that if I’d inherited my writing skills from you, I wouldn’t be as good a writer as I am. I hate that you smoke all the time and then act like it’s not hurting you at all. I wish you’d stop.


But when I try and wrap my mind around life without you, Mom, I can’t. Sometimes I even start to cry. When it comes down to it, I need you to wrap me up in a blanket and make me chicken noodle soup when I’m sick. I need you to listen to me when I talk. I love it when you brush my hair; it feels so good. I like that when you’re around, I could do or say something completely stupid and you’d still love me. I like it when you kiss me goodnight and tell me you’ll see me tomorrow, because sometimes I’m afraid I won’t see you tomorrow. I love you so much, it hurts.


The good cancels out the evil in everyone, Mom. I don’t think you’ve realized that yet.