Parenthood is a constant reminder that I need to call my mother and apologize. Every day.

It was around 5:30 in the evening. The five year old was crying because she desperately wanted to hear her new Cow Tunes CD, but wanted to watch a video as well and there wasn’t time for both before supper. The baby is wailing because he’s got heat rash and a molar coming in, and he’s hungry but it hurts to eat. It is 85 degrees in the house. And now I’ve got to cook. Then I remember.

My mother, standing at the kitchen sink. I don’t remember the situation, only that I was being my rotten teenage self at the time. She had had enough. She stood, gripping the edges of the sink, and grimly said with her eyes closed

“Oh, my miserable life.”

This woman is gracious enough when I bemoan my hard mama days not to remind me of what a trial I was. The fact that she still even speaks to me is a miracle.

Isn’t it thoughtful of Planned Parenthood to think of this fall’s newest fashion accesory?

(Every getaway needs a souvenir.)

Is this thing on? (tap, tap, tap.) Good. Hold that thought – I’ll be right back.