In this column, Kristen Mulrooney writes letters to famous mothers from literature, TV, and film whom she finds herself relating to on a different level now that she’s a mom herself.
Dear Mrs. McCallister,
In 1990, I was about the same age as your son Kevin, and he and I were on the same wavelength—that is to say, I judged the hell out of your parenting. Poor Kevin. The youngest of an indeterminate number of kids, with an antagonistic older brother, a creepy uncle, nasty cousins picking on him in his own home… and a mother who couldn’t give him the time of day.
You said it yourself, Mrs. McCallister: “What kind of mother am I?”
What kind of mother lets her entire family bully her eight-year-old? What kind of mother makes her youngest child sleep alone in a spooky attic? What kind of mother forgets about her baby when she jets off to Paris and leaves him HOME ALONE??
I thought you were the worst mom in the world.
But decades have passed, and Kate—if I can call you Kate, since we’re peers now—I need you to know how sorry I am, because now I’m a mom, too, and I get it.
I get that you’re a working mother of several kids (how many, I’m not sure. I was never entirely clear on who all those kids belonged to).
I get the restraint it took for you to calmly send Kevin to his room after he called you a dummy and said he never wanted to see you again, because I know in moments like those, the natural maternal urge is to follow the offspring up to the third floor and toss it out the window.
I get that your husband, Peter, who is always so cool and calm, can only stay so cool and calm because he doesn’t take on any of the household responsibilities. Maybe he could find his own power cord adapter, or get his act together and pay the pizza guy, or I don’t know, just spitballing here, show some initiative in locating the eight-year-old child you BOTH forgot and left home alone. Maybe Pete could take a beat and do a better job sussing out the vibe of the suspicious “cop” casing your house before you left for vacation.
I get that, in all likelihood, you planned every detail of that vacation and got zero thanks for it.
For me, the month of December is crammed with decorating, planning, Christmas shopping, baking things in the shape of other things, putting together elaborate photo shoots for my Shutterfly Christmas cards, and practicing the signature Santa calligraphy I developed when my eldest was a baby so the kids wouldn’t wonder why Santa and I had the same handwriting. So I get that every special moment of the holiday season is a heavy burden that falls on your shoulders, and the magic of Christmas exists in your home only because you put it there with your bare hands.
So who can blame you for this one teensy weensy oversight? To your credit, you tried delegating headcount responsibility to the oldest kid (your daughter—or your niece? Again, this was never made super clear), but she messed it up. And she messed it up very confidently, which didn’t help.
You had no support. I get it, Kate. Once you realized Kevin was missing, you tried to enlist the help of the local police, but they were useless. I know they knocked on the door, and nobody answered, but isn’t that kind of a problem? They didn’t think that was even worse? Why is everyone around you so les incompétents?
I get that the two days you spent in the airport, on planes, and in the back of a box truck with a polka band were probably the only moments of mental alone time you’d had in years.
I know what you’re thinking: “But then I lost Kevin again the following Christmas, and the same two bandits from the first time chased him around New York City trying to murder him.” Sshh. It’s okay.
Mom to mom, I hope you take some solace in the fact that I get it, and I promise you, we’ve all been there. Moms can’t be on top of everything all the time. Confession time: if I could legally hand my eight-year-old my American Express card and let him watch movies and order room service on his own in a hotel for a week, I would do it. And if I found out a random pigeon lady in Central Park was looking after my kid, I’d be psyched. Free babysitting? Sign me up.
So now, because it’s Christmastime, I just want to say I’m sorry for ever judging you, Kate. You’re a hardworking mother who’s doing your best. Yes, you forgot your second grader existed until you were flying over the Atlantic Ocean. But you also raised a clever, independent, and resilient kid with a big heart, and that’s every mother’s dream.
And hey, you have a ton of kids to manage (at least three, I think?), so even if on the off chance you left one of them home on purpose, I wouldn’t blame you.
I get it.
Merry Christmas,
Kristen Mulrooney