not Love, anna

For those of you who, upon seeing this photo, pitied me and acknowledged how I have my hands full with my daughter, I accepted your sympathy graciously. Some of you had been there yourselves, as a mother or a daughter. Others recommended I sleep with my bedroom door locked, in case she ever went all Menendez on me.

If you want more details about this picture, check it out here

Today I’ve dug into the archives—my late mother’s jewelry box— to show you that I don't deserve sympathy, I deserve (and am getting!) payback. Here’s a pseudo-Valentine from me to my mother, circa 1977 or so, in which I let her know how I felt about her on a given day. I remember sliding it under her bedroom door, thoroughly pissed about something.

Since apparently my scanner stinks, I'll type it for you here:

Just fur you

Po Po

not Love,

anna

I can’t say much for my spelling—po po should be “poo poo,” but I will say that this note gives me hope. My anger burned white hot over whatever she had done to me.

Who knows what it was? Making me go to piano lessons? Telling me to clean my room? Or the time when she wouldn’t let me go with a friend to the White House to MEET AMY CARTER!!!!!!?????? I had a strange feeling at the time that she thought maybe I was too high-strung to keep it together on a 10 hour outing with another family. This is right before I locked myself in the bathroom for 4 hours decrying the cruelty of humanity. Hmmm.

This note gives me hope because I know it did not sum up how I really felt about my mom, just as Molly’s picture can’t negate the good times, such as the down-right awesome day we spent together today. I can picture my mom shaking her head and laughing as she tucked it in her jewelry box, just as I laughed when I saw the curlicue mustache Molly gave me. Payback can be heck.

I just need to keep telling myself that a daughter’s love for her mom goes way beyond hate notes. Lather, rinse, repeat as needed.