Dear Mom,

I don’t know if it’s because I recently turned 40 or if it’s maturity or the time that healed our wounds and rekindled the love between you and I, so sorrowfully damaged by teenage angst and Mother-Daughter sparring.

Perhaps it has more to do with the fact that I now have 3 teenage daughters of my own.
Whatever ever it is, I can finally reflect objectively and take some responsibility for all that I once blamed you for.

Looking back, maybe sunbathing topless in the backyard just because I knew your bible study group was on their way over was not nearly as edgy as it was obnoxious.

Perhaps declaring myself a satanist at youth group was less a stand on my freedom to chose as it was my attempt to embarrass and punish you for making me go to church.

I’ll admit that day, when I was 13 years old, when I stole your cigarettes I swore up and down that it was only because I was worried that you would get cancer and I was merely trying to save our life, was less an act of humanity as it was a blatant act of theft.

I’ll also come right out and acknowledge that it was me who ate the cat food (not “the other Jennifer”), pooped on the nasty neighbor’s welcome mat and told my grade two teacher that I wasn’t really your child; that you had abducted me from an orange Julius and I desperately needed help getting back to my real family.

“Seriously! You have to call the police! My life is in danger!”

I get that it was selfish of me to threaten to follow you when you threatened to run away from home.

I get that maybe you weren’t actually as interested in “CONTROLLING MY LIFE!!” or “DICTATING MY EVERY THOUGHT AND MOVEMENT!!!”
as you were in perhaps napping or even just having one single moment of peace.

But seriously? Was cursing me entirely necessary?

I was only 5 years old when you said the words…

“I hope to god Jennifer, that when you grow up you have a daughter EXACTLY like you”

Mom. Honestly. The bag of flaming poop on your doorstep right now? Not me. Possibly “The Other Jennifer” but definitely not me.