I Don’t Want Your Mom.

It’s supposed to be a moment of levity in an otherwise bummer of a conversation.

Friend: “She’s probably going to hate anything we get her because unless all of us fly home and appear at her doorstep with her favorite flower, she won’t be satisfied. Anyway, what are you doing for your mom this Mother’s Day?”

Me: “Nothing, really. My mom passed away, actually.”

Friend: “Oh my God, I’m so sorry… you can borrow mine if you want! She’s totally nuts, but she makes a bomb-ass rigatoni.”

I hear this a lot. The loaner mom concept. It’s surprising how often.

You panicked. You wanted to be genuinely thoughtful and empathetic while still deflecting. You didn’t want to talk about anyone’s dead mother, so you tried to offer condolences and a bit of a joke by “lending” out your mom. I laughed and said “aww,” because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, even though if I took a moment from the panic of an awkward situation to consider it, you actually hurt mine.

I don’t want your mom.

Sorry.

The mom you have to offer is very much like mine was —Overly welcoming and very soft. Accommodating. Hugs a little too long and even does the little rocking motion that only moms do. Wants to make sure you read that article about soy and why it’s excellent/terrible for you. Is really into a TV show she thinks she’s the first to discover, but it’s been on the air for 3+ years.

She has all the same irritating qualities mine did, but none of the redeeming ones.

Why do you love your mom? Because of her rigatoni?

You love your mom because she soothed your wasp sting when you were 4. Because she reaffirmed that you didn’t need those no-good bitches in 7th grade who made fun of your weird earlobes. Because she paid for 10 years of sports or music or dance equipment/lessons, and said you were awesome at it even though you totally sucked.

I don’t want your mom.

You love her because she was, and is, yours.

Today, she comments on how many dishes you have in your sink, what your spouse wore to so-and-so’s party, how you don’t call her often enough. She irritates you, and you say so. All the time. And you’re not wrong.

But I don’t want her. You barely do. I really don’t.

My mom was not a lawnmower; I can’t just borrow the neighbor’s when mine craps out. She was a super weird, very flawed, wonderful mom who was mine.

You wouldn’t get her Law and Order obsession (the original, not SVU). Her weird cheerleader dance would embarrass you even worse than it embarrassed me, which was a lot. I had years of breathing practice for when she hugged me and my face went into her overwhelming mom-boobs and I couldn’t breathe but if I struggled it got worse so I had to just go limp and hope for the best. You would suffocate and die. Sorry.

I miss her all the time and would really like to borrow her.

I’d borrow her for pizza and wine and to watch one of the newer sci-fi movies like The Martian or Arrival. I’d send her so many YouTube videos of stupid shit because she would love it with such exuberance. I’d introduce her to my cats and listen to her talk to them like she talked to our cats growing up — like they’re very professional people. “Oh yes. Hello. I’m sorry, did you want to play with this hair tie? Well I think that’s a very good idea.”

But you would not want to borrow her. You wouldn’t get it. You’d be confused. And you’d probably have mild brain damage from boob suffocation. I would not do that to you.

When you offer to lend me your mom, you’re:

a) deflecting to avoid an awkward situation
b) implying that moms are interchangeable pieces of property
c) flaunting some arbitrary quality your mom has, such as the ability to make rigatoni, whilst my mom cannot even breathe or exist on Earth anymore

If I lost my wedding ring, would you offer me yours in its place?

I hope not. That would be weird, and it wouldn’t solve the problem. I would have lost something irreplaceable. Something that carries too much weight for your piece of metal and rocks to make a difference. It doesn’t devalue your metal and rocks; it just shows that your metal and rocks are special to you.

I don’t want your soft, aging, worrying mom.

Your mom is delightful, as is your wedding ring. But they’re not mine. They never will be.