One Bad Mutha

Mother’s Day is almost upon us. It’s that glorious day when we can celebrate the magnificent and beautiful role of Mother. Why just yesterday I was reminded of the gallant work these blessed angels do—when she called me an “assface.”

I've seen all kinds in my time, but I don't think Hallmark makes a card for the assface calling kind of mother. I pretended that when she told me this that she was on the other line wearing a flowery dress, pearls, and an apron with a plate of cooling cookies in his hand. The contradiction made me laugh.

Anyway, she did not find it acceptable that her son was failing the semester and was dead certain that it was at my hands. I know that it is hard to argue with someone with such an eloquent tongue and a vocabulary as scholarly as the greatest minds this world has ever seen, but it couldn’t have been all my fault. Pages of his textbook were ripped out instead of read. He was caught cheating on quizzes. Countless assignments failed to be submitted. And I’m the assface?

I mean his journal that I have the kids keep count for a portion of their grade? He could have done one of the assignments for that instead of focusing so much on decorating it. All semester he has cut and pasted bosoms from various magazines. Talk about your fixations; he calls it his "tittie book."

I wonder if his mom calls him titface?