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.'
Peace.
Peace.
