Love it or Hate it: Yer mom

by Anya Jaremko-Greenwold

Love it

Yer mom is so fat. In a good way. She has the warmest, squashiest body that can envelope you in a swift embrace. Her dressing gown has enough fabric to catch all of your tears. She’s so fat, she knows exactly what home-cooked meal you want according to your petulant moods. She knows how burnt you like your toast and what flavor pasta sauce is your favorite.

Yer mom is so stupid. But some lessons can’t be learned in school. She worked two jobs rather than send herself to college. She also saved money to make sure you could go. She’s so stupid, she gets angry when you decide to major in something impractical like philosophy, but then lets you crash in her basement when you can’t find a job and slink home with yer tail between your legs.

Yer mom is so old. And she’s filled with wisdom; how best to get stains out of blouses, how to find the cheapest airline tickets, how to seduce unsuspecting men. She’s been taken advantage of, deceived, congratulated, interrogated, praised, looked after, abandoned and finally – reincarnated. With you, she thinks she gets a second chance. You’ll do everything she couldn’t.

Anya Jaremko-Greenwold Hate it

Think it’s impossible for me to hate yer mom, like yer mom is some sort of heaven’s gift? Let me try.

There were all those times yer mom bragged about you embarrassingly to her friends when you were standing right there and you just had to take it. Because it’s always the unimportant stuff that she brags about, like your career achievements and the charming and stable relationship you have with yer significant other. When will yer mom brag to her friends about something that actually matters, like how you graduated college in five years, not six like all your friends, or how you haven’t stolen money from them in three years?

Or how yer mom made you breakfast every day during high school and she would cut the fruit so nicely and display it on a plate. And then one day she stopped, and just started putting a whole apple or peach in front of you. What was that?

Or how yer mom said you could get a puppy and then was talked out of it by yer dad. Blame yer dad, but that’s totally on yer mom, getting yer hopes up like that.

Or how yer mom would always make sure you did yer homework, or ate three solid meals a day, or later, when you were an adult, she’d call every week to check in, if only to make sure yer life was OK or that at least that you weren’t dead. Yer mom is rather pesky like that.

David Holub

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