Oedipus on Mother's DayDonald Illich
Hallmark sells no cards for our situation. I scan the aisle looking for a bittersweet spot between those for wife, those for mother. Wife seems too affectionate, while son feels kind of reserved. I should kiss you on the cheek when I've seen you naked, lots of times? Or sit on your lap? But I'm a big boy now, as you know, probably too much so. I did find one for Dad, actually, an apology to you. A baby on the front accidentally spills his pudding. A rainbow word balloon yells, “Oops!” Inside, a puppy licks up the drops. The text: “Accidents happen. I hope you can forgive me.” We'll try to pretend they're not blood. Let's admit, though, you're glad I'm back this day. Once you winced at brunch specials and mimosas, visited places mothers wouldn't be: sci-fi conventions, cock fights, rugby matches. We can go out together on a date, act as if we have a child at home, baby sat by shepherds, never left alone, exposed to elements. Indifference will never be a problem for us. The only curse we have is love.
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