Please Don’t Wish Me a Happy Mother’s Day

Why do I hate Mother’s Day? Because one day a year, men tell the world how wonderful their wives are, how much they appreciate them. But the other 364 days? Not worth the words, not worth the effort. The most heinous thing, though? They talk about what a great mother she is to their children, but never acknowledge the thousand ways in which they undermine their wife’s relationships with those children by: putting work and their interests first; holding onto the income they earn more tightly than Ebenezer Scrooge and begrudgingly opening the purse for the wife and kids only when there’s no way to get around it (unless they’re buying big, outrageous gifts—with strings attached, of course—that others will see and be impressed by); belittling her and anything that’s important to her (Ah, the shame and scorn! I’ve lived a life absolutely soaked in it.); asking her to choose between them and the kids; undermining and degrading her self-esteem so much, she becomes a shell of who she once was, who she is supposed to be. And the worst offenders I’ve ever encountered? Christian men, especially Catholics, who judge the rest of the world for doing it all wrong. Talk about a log in eye.