In this recurring 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 Marge,
We’ve never met, but in a way I’ve known you all my life, so I feel comfortable writing you this letter to spill my guts. I’ll take care not to make a mess, because we both know how hard it is to keep a floor clean for more than ten minutes.
I find you very relatable, Marge, because I’m a stay-at-home mom to three kids who take me completely for granted. I acknowledge this is to be expected from small children, but have you ever been home alone with one of the kids, on your hands and knees trying to peel dried banana skin off the baseboards, and your child glances away from Itchy and Scratchy long enough to look you in the eye and say, “Can someone get me a snack?” As if “someone” could be anyone but you? As if you didn’t spend nine months growing them a set of arms and legs so they could go get their own snacks?
You’ve been a stay-at-home mom for a few decades now, but you were at your most relatable when your family fell ill during a flu pandemic. Been there! You held it together while everyone fell to pieces around you, coughing, sneezing, running fevers, and needing you. You didn’t get sick yourself—or you did, but you told your body to cut the crap because you didn’t have time to be sick. After a few days of nonstop being needed, you dragged your haggard self out to run errands, and you accidentally walked out of the store with a bottle of Kolonel Kwik-E-Mart’s Kentucky Bourbon in your pocket. As a result, you were sentenced to thirty days in jail. D’oh!
Confession time: I’m a little bit jealous.
I’m jealous because, for thirty days, you had nobody else to take care of. You whiled away your days doing arts and crafts and having uninterrupted conversations with new, interesting friends. Every night, you ate a meal that someone else cooked. And best of all, in your absence, your family and community finally appreciated how much you do for them.
I am aware of the injustice and corruption in our privately owned prison system, even in the fancy Martha Stewart prisons, but hear me out on this. Sometimes, I dream of a little thirty-day sentence myself. Not here, but in one of the Scandinavian countries, like Norway. Have you ever seen those Norwegian prison cells? They remind me of my college dorm room, only twice the size and ten times cozier. I’d have my own bed, plenty of quiet time, and a full-sized desk where I could finally finish revising my novel.
Of course, I’d have to commit a crime first, but here’s another secret: you aren’t the only one who has committed petty theft in an exhausted haze. I’ve heard that moms steal from self-checkout all the time. Sometimes, it’s by accident. Sometimes, they have the baby carrier in the shopping cart and a lip gloss rolls under the carrier, and they don’t see it until they’re putting the baby in the car, and at that point, there’s no way they’re journeying all the way back inside the store to pay for it, so they accept the free lip gloss as a gift from God. Sometimes, while they’re shopping, they pop something in that basket underneath the stroller—you know, the basket that’s helpful for toting items around but not so helpful for remembering to pay for items—and stroll right on home with it. Or sometimes, they simply feel like all they do is slave away for their family, and they deserve a little treat, dammit.
That’s what I’ve heard, at least.
I’m writing this letter to you from a plane. I kissed my three Beelzebubs goodbye this morning, and now I’m flying across the country for a quick trip, like really quick, like twenty-four-hours-quick. I’ll be home tomorrow, because I am needed at home. For now, I am unencumbered for twenty-four hours… but I’ve had a lump in my throat all morning, and the tears in my eyes spilled over when I saw a tired dad run by, trying to capture his escaped toddler. I thought I was jealous of your thirty-day jailcation, yet here I am wishing it were me tackling my children to the ground in an airport. I wish I were the one hissing “If you don’t cut that out right now…” warnings until I’m blue in the hair.
Maybe I have this all wrong. Maybe I don’t want to go to prison for thirty days, not even a luxurious Scandinavian prison. Maybe there’s some joy to be found in the selflessness of motherhood. There’s something humbling about the way my children take me for granted. Right now, I’m somewhere over Illinois, and I can guarantee my kids are watching cartoons in our living room in Massachusetts, yelling, “Mom! Can you get me a snack!” because they’re so used to me always being there for them. And that’s beautiful.
Marge, let’s promise each other that we’ll be good to ourselves, at least until our kids shed their innately selfish skins and learn how to be good to us. We’ll take the time to pursue a new hobby. We’ll buy the pink Chanel suit. We’ll encourage our husbands to take the cushy job with Hank Scorpio and actually enjoy the benefits of a self-cleaning home. After all, we work hard for nothing in return, but the satisfaction of ending each episode snuggled up on the couch with the family we love.
So, the biggest confession of all? I guess I don’t mind being taken for granted.
And also sometimes I steal things.
Thanks for listening,
Kristen