All mothers, all the time

I hate Mother's Day. Even more, I hate Mother's Day weekend, Mother's Day month, and the advertising that leads up to it all. I hate the overblown miracle of it all.Making babies is a common occurrence. So common, in fact, that practically 50 per cent of the population at any given time can make a baby. Yes, in all liklihood, you too can make a baby.

Can you raise a baby to be a fully functioning, independent, adult human being? Maybe. Maybe not. But this requirement is not addressed on Mother's Day. No. Mother's Day proclaims that all mothers shall henceforth be idolized for their giving, nurturing, self-sacrificing beauty, with no actual proof of giving, nurturing, or self-sacrificing activities required.

Any stupid, selfish bitch, who does nothing at all to ensure that her children grow up into viable human beings, can glory in this day because it is, after all, Her Day. We must shower her in gifts. We must purchase meaningless platitudes printed on overripe greeting cards in freshly butchered flesh tones. We must take Mother out to eat, because of course the Kitchen is Her Domain so we couldn't possibly stay home and fix a meal for her.

Finally, we must take a moment or two to ponder the uselessness of fathers. Fathers, of course, can never rise to the holiness of mothers. They can only stand helplessly by, wringing their hands, alternately adoring and beating the mothers of their children. Fathers certainly do not do for children what Mothers do. Fathers don't nurture. Fathers are not "always there for me." Fathers get a day in the summer, not sanctified by the hand-made card industry known as public school. On Father's Day it is appropriate to give gifts of singing fish and bad ties, in a vain attempt to apologize for the fact that a father, through no fault of his own, can't possibly be as amazing, giving, self-sacrificing, and beautiful as a Mother, no matter how much he loves his children, teaches them, cries for them, and feels lost without them. He's no Mother, that's for sure.

Poor, poor Dad. Please take this crappy tool kit I bought off the Father's Day table next to the cash register as I was heading out of the grocery store, and don't forget to buy a diamond for the Mother of your child next May. After all, it was your seed that made her make the baby. You useless man, you.