There are many kinds of mothers. Some don't care about their children. Some just smack them in the face. Some want to be their children's friend and tell them to pretend they're sisters. They insist on being called by their first name and to keep smiling as the sister game unfolds. Some may even jump their kids like a horse on Sunday and rape their tiny asses till they can't walk no more, while others treasure them like they might get stolen by the den of thieves they know some scheming folks really are. They call their kids their offspring. They hide them from all the pain in the world singing Michael Jackson songs or humming, It's true we'll make a better day, just you and me, and feed them oatmeal. 'No McDonald's for you, son. Just healthy, nutritious fibers and love that'll make you grow so you, too, can become the new president of the United States. Or China. It sort of depends on where you live. It's possible. Now, eat your oatmeal.'
Some mothers don't see their children as possessions or a second chance to make up for all the foolish things they once did themselves, and want them to understand the meaning of life, the value of money, the virtue of hard work and what it takes to be a good human being. As hard and subjective a task this may be, they'll try anyway. My Momma falls into the latter category of mommas around the world. She taught me right from wrong, and I'm thankful for her that she did. I'm thankful for all her hard work, for I assure you I was a piece of work that needed a bit of tweaking. The only thing she couldn't do — and that's a shame — was give me eternal life. But, then again, nobody is perfect.
Thank you, Blue Momma.
Did I mention that I love you?
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