My mother held me to high grammatical standards. She taught me how to figure out whether you should use “me” or “I” in a sentence. She handed me Northanger Abbey when I was 12 years old. She decided when I should be reading adult books and lead me to the tall stacks in the front of the library and encouraged me to check out whatever I wanted. I learned about history and sex (I think she intended one and not the other) through old-fashioned romance authors she recommended I read in my tweens. I read Victoria Holt and Anya Seton. In other words my mother made me into the persnickety reader and copyeditor I am today.
I think about my mother every day in a thousand tiny ways. Right now I’m drinking my coffee out of a cup I gave her eighteen years ago. I eat off her plates. I read Jane Austen every year. I don’t need some Hallmark holiday to make me feel bad about not being able to call my mother. I can’t take her out to breakfast. I can’t even send her flowers. Fuck you, Hallmark, thanks for reminding me.
One of the things that had made me feel slightly better about this manufactured holiday is that now a bunch of my friends have babies, and I like the idea that I can honor them. So I think about that sometimes. And a warning to my Internet mother friends: watch what you teach your kids, you’ll find yourself with a bunch of badass, smart-mouthed kids who will correct your grammar.