The Trials and Tribulations of Having a Mother like ME

When I am your mom ...

I ask to check your homework. When you tell me you threw it out, I ask you go to through your garbage and bring it to me. When you tell me you ripped it into pieces and can't find it, I make you re-do it three times and then apologize for lying.

I email your teachers and embarrass you by actually attending parent nights and worse, introducing myself.

I pay for school pictures, make you do your hair before they are taken and then send them off to all your assorted relatives who insist on telling you what a handsome kid you are.

I pay you ten bucks to wear your OBAMA IS MY HOMEBOY shirt to school which gets you all sorts of positive attention from your friends and teachers, and much to your surprise, everyone thinks it's cool.

I don't consider a fudgsiscle the dairy portion of a well rounded supper.

I cry over the unsolicited apology note you give me for lying about doing your homework.

I give you gigantic hugs on the playground, which you love, and then tell you to go wash your filthy hands, which you hate.

I know who your friends are and who their parents are. I know where you are and who you are hanging out with. I really, really restrict the amount of trouble you can get into by being annoyingly present.

I consider most PG 13 movies unacceptable, but sit with you while we watch Schindler's List and Amistaad, both Restricted.

I am excited that you get to vote in a mock federal election, making you question my sanity, again.

I love you more than I can say or ever show. My heart bursts with pride for the men you are becoming.