I have a confession.

I derive an alarming amount of joy from annoying the absolute, ever-loving SHIT out of my mother.

Like…

An unhealthy amount.

It is my favorite hobby.

My favorite pastime.

My cardio.

My emotional support activity.

I genuinely believe the Good Lord looked down forty years ago and said,

“You know what would be hilarious?”

“Let’s give Marcie ONE child…and make her feral.”

Mission accomplished.

I have been a menace since conception.

I wasn’t even born yet and I was probably kicking her kidneys just to see what would happen.

Fast forward forty years…

Absolutely nothing has changed.

I will drive over to her house on a random Tuesday morning…

Annoy her for exactly 6 minutes…

Raid her coffee…

Tell her three completely fabricated stories…

Scare her half to death…

And then leave.

Like some kind of emotionally unstable neighborhood raccoon.

I don’t need anything. I didn’t come for a purpose.

I simply woke up and thought…

“You know who hasn’t been inconvenienced by my existence yet today?”

Mom.

I LOVE sneaking up behind her.

I LOVE making weird noises.

I LOVE speaking exclusively in movie quotes until she threatens my life.

I LOVE doing Beavis and Butt-Head impressions.

I LOVE randomly becoming Ace Ventura and talking to her with my BUTT for no reason whatsoever.

And my personal favorite…

Making up completely believable stories.

Not little lies…

I’m talking full-blown Netflix Original productions.

One time I convinced my mom there was a homeless family secretly living in our barn.

I had names.

Backstories.

Employment history.

I had these imaginary people paying imaginary utilities.

My mom looked at my dad…

Dead serious…

And said…

“Go check the barn.”

…

HE WENT.

My father…

A grown-ass man…WITH MORE important shit to do…

Walked out to investigate fictional squatters because of something that came out of MY face.

I nearly died.

Not from guilt…

From laughing! I watched it all unfold from the kitchen window peeps.

Honestly…

I’m beginning to understand why I’m an only child.

Things are starting to make sense.

My mom had me…

Spent a few years with my personality…

And probably looked at my dad and said,

“Absolutely the fuck not EVER AGAIN. This is it no more kids for us!”

“This experiment has concluded.”

But in all seriousness…

My mom’s life has not been easy.

Before I was born, she had my older brother.

She lost him at birth.

At the exact same time…

At only nineteen years old…

She suffered a stroke that left her disabled.

Nineteen.

At nineteen I was worried about what song I wanted as my ringtone and whether my eyebrows looked even.

My mom was learning how to survive unimaginable grief while figuring out how to navigate life after a stroke.

Life didn’t gently hand her lemons.

Life backed over her with the whole damn produce truck.

But if you know my mom…

You know quitting has never been part of her vocabulary.

She got back up.

She adapted.

She kept moving.

She built a beautiful life anyway.

She chose joy anyway.

She chose family anyway.

Then…

She was blessed with the greatest child in recorded human history.

Me.

You’re welcome, Mother.

You truly peaked.

After me, she lost another baby.

So yes…

I really am an only child.

Which explains…

Everything.

Spoiled?

Absolutely.

Opinionated?

Violently.

Independent?

To a fault.

Convinced I’m right?

Almost always.

Born believing I was management despite never being promoted by anyone?

Without question.

CEO of Things That Aren’t My Business.

Chairwoman of the Committee of Unsolicited Opinions.

Founder of Chaos Incorporated.

My mom deserves her own post because I honestly don’t talk about her enough.

Mostly because I try to leave her out of my internet shenanigans.

She’s been through enough.

She doesn’t also need strangers messaging her saying,

“So…Heather really IS like this in real life?”

Yes.

Yes, I am.

Unfortunately for her.

By the time we’ve spent an afternoon together…

I’ve probably already annoyed her enough to last the entire fiscal quarter.

If I start writing about her daily too…

She will absolutely:

List me on Facebook Marketplace under “Free. Slightly used. Loud. VERY ANNOYING”

Donate me to science.

Drop me off at the zoo because clearly I belong with the other wild animals.

Or simply pretend she doesn’t know me in Walmart.

Honestly…Fair.

But here’s the thing…

My mom is one of the strongest people I’ve ever known.

She has lived through losses that would crush most people.

She survived a stroke before most people have even figured out who they are.

She rebuilt her life.

She kept loving.

She kept showing up.

She kept putting family first.

She kept choosing us.

Every.

Single.

Time.

And somehow…

SOMEHOW…

She also managed to raise a daughter whose full-time personality is “lovable pain in the ass.”

For forty years she has tolerated my mouth.

My stories.

My dramatic entrances.

My inability to behave in public.

My tendency to make friends with complete strangers while simultaneously avoiding eye contact with people I actually know.

My weird voices.

My puppets. (which i’m not allowed to bring in the car anymore since circa 2001)

My inability to leave literally anything serious for more than thirty-seven seconds before making a joke.

That isn’t patience.

That’s a damn Olympic sport.

So here’s to my mom.

The woman who raised me.

The woman who occasionally still answers my phone calls.

(Usually Dad answers because Mom has apparently reached her daily Heather quota.)

The woman who somehow hasn’t sold me for store credit.

Yet.

The woman who taught me what resilience looked like before I even understood the word.

The woman who showed me that life can absolutely beat the hell out of you…

…and you can still choose to keep going.

She is the reason I don’t quit.

She is the reason I laugh through hard things.

And she is the reason Dad now instinctively checks the barn before questioning anything I say.

Forty years later…He’s learned.

Love you, Mom.

Thank you for raising me.

Thank you for surviving everything life threw at you.

Thank you for never giving up.

And thank you for somehow resisting the overwhelming urge to return me to the hospital where you got me.

I love you more than words…

And just a little bit more than I love being a pain in your ass.

Which, if you know me…

Is saying a whole damn lot. ❤️