Dear Child,

Today is that special day that comes around once every year when you honor me for growing a person - you - inside my stomach for nine months and then hatching you in a 21-hour-long ordeal. My body will never be the same after breastfeeding you until you were 42 months old (that’s three and a half, in case you forgot), and you want to thank me for that.

There are a lot of ways you could have chosen to express your gratitude. WBUR has their special deal on flowers; CVS has kitschy cards. If using the allowance I give you to buy me one of these gifts is too much trouble, of course, you could always call me on the smartphone that I bought you.

You, of course, chose to go a different route: posting an unflattering picture of the two of us on a social media platform I don’t have. Why bother dropping a line to tell me you love me when you can just write a paragraph about how much I’ve done for you on Instagram, right?

I didn’t even see the post myself, because once again, I don’t use that social media platform. Your sister showed me so I could help her decide if it was too late for her to post a picture of her at age two in an adorable onesie I got her and me with pronounced eyebags, stained teeth from my coffee addiction, and a spot of pear mush from Gerber My 1st™ Fruits Starter Kit on my shirt.

I mean, what is Mother’s Day if not an excuse for you to exploit your child self’s cuteness and/or the good genes that you got from ME to get a lot of likes on a picture I would never have known existed? Forget the woman who washed your sheets every day when you started wetting the bed again when you were nine. Today is about YOU.

Love,

Mommy