Dear Mom (and all the baby mommas and baby’s momma’s mommas),
Now that I’m on the other side, the Mom side, I see things differently. I see what you sacrificed and why you struggled. I see why you did the things you did. I get it now. And I owe you a thousand apologies, but for now I think I’ll start with these.
I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for –
Not wanting to eat the food you made. Because now I know how much time and energy went into deciding what to cook and then cooking it. Yes, even into baking that Tombstone pizza and dealing with the mom guilt of making frozen pizza instead of a gourmet meal after a day of chasing after a million kids and maintaining a household.
Whining about having to clean my room. Or any room, really. Because you had already cleaned the kitchen, living room, laundry room, and attic. The least I could have done was pick up my 1,000 Barbies and Jenny Gymnast.
The tantrum I threw when I couldn’t decide what I wanted. Because you told me I could have something, and that gave me conflicting emotions. Cue tantrum.
The tantrum I threw when I was hangry. Because if I’d just eaten the food you made, I wouldn’t be hangry.
The tantrum I threw when…you know what? I’m sorry for all of the tantrums I threw. Because tantrums are like road kill; they’re gross and embarrassing and everyone has to stare at them no matter how uncomfortable it may be.
The sleepless nights. Because I wasn’t tired, or I was overtired, or I missed you, or I wanted to eat, or I was afraid. Because while I was sleeping for the rest of whenever I was tired, you were doing all of the things.
The early mornings. Who needs alarm clocks? Hello, it’s me! Your 4a.m. wake up call.
Inflicting physical pain on you. Biting, hitting, kicking…Because pregnancy and labor weren’t enough. Obvi.
Arguing about everything. I already see this happening and my baby isn’t even talking yet. How does a 13-month old even know how to argue? No, you can’t eat the Styrofoam off of the garage floor because you might choke and die. Sorry for keeping you alive and ruining your life.
Thinking I was right. I wasn’t.
Forgetting to say thanks. For everything. Seriously. All. The. Things.
Blaming you. After all, you didn’t neglect to do my science project until the night before it was due. You didn’t decide to date the boy who broke my heart. You didn’t skip my curfew. You didn’t make my friend betray me.
Making you worry. Especially when I could have prevented it.
Growing up. Because babies are cute and cuddly, and teenagers can be assholes.
Not appreciating you. Thank you for loving me, teaching me, caring for me. But mostly, thank you for teaching me how to be a mom.
Not getting “it.” I get it now. Promise.
And when the apology itself isn’t enough, just remember that payback’s a bitch and I have at least 35 or so more years of it.