Mother’s Day began with a text from my college boy middle child. He was working the farmers market and wished me a happy mother’s day and said I Love You. He won. Later that morning my daughter presented me with an orchid, a plate of raspberries and a muffin, and a homemade card with a wonderful note. Ok, she won. Handmade trumps text. Sorry buddy. Now nirvana: read the Sunday New York Times in peace. But, there is no peace in the NYT.
The story of the 200+ abducted Chibok schoolgirls, plucked from their boarding school beds and loaded onto buses by armed Islamist militant terrorists, is a hard one to read. The group’s name, Boko Haram, translates to ‘Western Education is sin’ and they believe in strict Sharia Law. Their leader, Abubakar Shedau released a video threatening to sell the girls. He wants to trade them for prisoners. A CNN interview with one of the girls who escaped is heartbreaking. She is so traumatized that she will not return to school.
This is not good Mother's Day reading. Or maybe it’s the exact right kind. I yell upstairs for my daughter to give me an update on her homework.
In stark contrast is a moronic article in the Style section about crop tops. An enormous amount of lady sweat and anesthesia is going into feeling confident while sporting a partial shirt. As a mother of a teenaged daughter, this is not optimal. Apparently there are women so beholden to Forever 21 fashion standards that they’re scuttling over to their friendly neighborhood cosmetic surgeon, waving red carpet pictures of starving celebrities in crop tops and plunking down 6K for Airsculpt – all for the promise of flashing a smooth tight midriff.
At this point my ‘fix this’ mom brain kicks in. Navy Seals can airdrop the crop top ladies into Nigeria in exchange for the 200 abducted schoolgirls who value education over Ab Attack class. I think about running this idea by my daughter. I envision the blank stare. I know she will think the Stella McCartney top that the 84 pound Rihanna is rocking is super cute, and that she will be horrified that my idea suggests that I am not taking #bringbackourgirls seriously.
Good thing it’s Mother’s Day, as my first-born slides in under the wire and calls. He’s in solid third place. It was our first conversation in over a month. There had been talk just that morning of filing a missing persons report, but luckily it didn’t come to that. The call was appropriately glitchy – he has no reception on the Oregon farm where he lives and works. It mirrored our relationship – ‘Huh? What? I can’t understand you. OK, well, thanks for calling, I can’t hear you so I’m hanging up. Call when you have better reception. Love you.'