I'm pretty sure that I was supposed to write something all touchy-feely about my mother about a week ago. I was supposed to write about how great it is that she'll let me give her pictures of Peter Pan for Mother's Day. I was supposed to write a detailed description of exactly how grateful I am that she carried me around for nine months and then birthed me, or something.
And, of course, I was supposed to write a monologue-soliloquy about all she does for me.
I'm supposed to spin out a list of adjectives with flowers in them like Google tells me to (here). Flowery long-words that no one even knows, that no one will have the gall to look up in the dictionary.
Societal messages tell me that I'm supposed to skirt around the controversial stuff. After all, Mother's Day is something we have in common with everyone, right?
I'm not supposed to write about the way she encourages my angry-activist tendencies. Not about the fact that Peter Pan was Feminist Peter Pan. Not the way that she sends me wonderfulish feminist articles from everywhere.
And when I spin out my adjectives, using my wonderful language yarn, the one I'm supposed to pick isn't supposed to be badass.
But look at that.
And late, too.
I'm not going to go in-depth on how magnificent of a fashion sense you have, mom. Even though it's incredibly wonderful. That's what I'm supposed to do, isn't it? Talk about all the stereotypically motherly things that you do, like make me cookies.
But you always told me that, yeah, it was perfectly great if I am a nonconformist. In fact, you told me it was wonderful! Being who I am is wonderful!
And you encourage my feminist cartooning and my feminist blogging and my reading of feministing.com.
And, mom, you help me look for all those lost Ani DiFranco albums. Major points.
My mom. Major badass.