Dear Mom, I'm sorry.

Dear Mom,

I'd like to apologize to you for making you live with me from the ages of eleven to twenty.

I'd like to say I'm sorry for all the times you were explaining the ways of the universe to me, but I couldn't understand anything you were saying because I was too busy rolling my eyes to the back of my head and sighing very loudly.

I totally understand why you sat down at the piano and banged out gospel songs after you would send Rechelle and me to bed and vacuumed the house at five o'clock in the morning. It was your way of irritating us while avoiding beating us to death.

I'm sorry you didn't have a blog to escape to.

I'm sorry I thought you were stupid for making me do all those useless tasks like; clean my room, do laundry, help make dinner and spend time at home. It was so hard for me to do those things when I was walking around with my eyes rolled back in my head, I hope you understand, because I can see quite clearly now....especially since I got glasses.

Remember all those times you said, "I hope you have a kid that is just like you, then you'll understand what I'm talking about?!"

I totally understand.

I also want to thank you for teaching me the fine art of embarrassment. Remember all the times you sang and danced in the car to songs you didn't know? Remember how you would get out your Mary Kay lipstick in the compact case with the three shades and apply it with that little retractable brush while looking the in the rear view mirror? Ugh, that was so embarrassing, and yet, brilliant. Remember yelling at us down the stairs in the basement to move the car because we parked it in the wrong spot on the driveway and when you finally poked your head through the door ranting and raving we were filming a spoof for the Johnny Carson show with a few of our friends? Oh, wait....that was Dad, never mind. But, wow, that was really humiliating, thanks Dad, I'll keep that one on the back burner.

Again, sorry you didn't have access to a blog.

I also want to retroactively ask your permission to wear all your clothes and your pearl necklace that I broke. Also, I won't get ticked when I see you likewise raid my closet and show up at school wearing my choir dress that no fewer than twelve other girls own and have no doubt that you are wearing the choir dress....to school.....in front of everyone....my choir dress.....in public......dear God, that was a priceless moment, I don't think I can top that one. Nor was I able to convince the entire school that you were NOT MY MOTHER.

I'm sorry for the times that I didn't claim you as my mom.

I'm sorry for not thanking you for all the time you spent driving me to dance classes. That is, until you discovered Rhonda Jarrett and her VW Bug and basically turned all parenting responsibilities over to Rhonda, the perfect older girl in the neighborhood that was able to protectively herd Rechelle and me through junior high and the first two years of high school. Thank God for Rhonda.

I am in serious need of a Rhonda and her VW Bug right now and also, could I get a male version of Rhonda for the boys?

Mom, I want you to know that at some point in my twenties you became a very smart woman with great ideas. I hope I can live long enough to become a smart woman with great ideas, it appears that I'll be teetering in that dancing in the car phase for many, many years to come. I fear I'll become so proficient at embarrassing the kids that it will become my normal to sing in an opera voice to all the songs on the radio and shake my shoulders while holding the steering wheel.........wait......is it normal to do those things when the kids aren't in the car? I think I have a problem.

Mom! What am I going to do?! When am I going to be normal?

My kids are too spread out for me to have a break between wanting to bash their faces into their smelly laundry and looking at them with love and admiration for MOVING OUT OF MY HOUSE! I am always going to have someone in emotional upheaval, hormonal egress and behavioral malfunction.

Mom, please feel sorry for me.

I really am sorry for having been a teenager and putting you through hell. Now, will you please come get all your grandchildren......wait, leave them here, come get me and take me home with you? Please, rescue me from these kids! They are driving me CRAZY!!!

I love you the most.

Your Favorite Daughter,

April