
It’s remarkable to me that Mother’s Day is not given the same weight or social concern as even Tax Day. I would gladly meet with a thousand H & R Block representatives who roll their eyes at my poor financial planning than sit in stunned silence when yet another brunch is ruined because I can’t cook salted meats.
I don’t sweat M Day because I dislike Mama Prescott (quite the contrary). I sweat it because it’s difficult to properly equalize the massively disjointed playing field with just one day. Mimosas and bacon couldn’t possibly make up for child birth followed by years of morning sassiness.
I don’t care what kind of edible arrangement you have, no standard Mother’s Day present is all that personal, so I’ve decided to go back in time, when macaroni necklaces and sloppy finger-painting cards were enough to get by in the eyes of Mom and do an O.G.-style tribute to the woman who puts up with my shit on the reg.
There are three things to remember when it comes to my Mom: The Who, coffee, and Jesus. These are the three things she enjoys most in the world, and in a lot of ways I can see why.
Besides The Who being my Mom’s favorite band (and since she lived through the ‘60s and ‘70s she can tell you a thing or two about a thing or two when it comes to Pete Townsend), “Who?” is coincidentally her favorite phrase of all time.
Allow me to illustrate:
I’m sitting in front of the TV, the Kardashians are always inexplicably on. Mom: “Hey, did you pick up that-” (gets distracted by the TV) “Who are these -?” “Um…the Kardashians?” “Who?” “The Kardashians.” “Do I know them?” “I don’t know? They’re the Kardashians?” “Who?”
And scene.

I don't even think Kim knows who she is anymore, either.
My Mom loves coffee. Her blood is comprised of 2/3 java, her eyes are always in a coffee-fueled wide-eyed pleasantness, the skip in her step is attributed entirely to caffeine. One time she decided to give it up for a remarkably long 3 weeks and I tell ya, those were the longest 3 weeks of my life.
So it’s probably appropriate that being around her is like drinking coffee. She’s a morning person in the very definition and origin of the word. When I awake at 8am, she’s already been up for 4 hours. She twittered before it was a verb, and accomplishes more than I could ever dream of before noon. This alone is her superpower.
My Mom loves Jesus, and I can understand why. They have a lot in common.
My Mom loves to hang out with a bunch of dudes, usually animators or writers or other creative fellas that taught me how to be snarky in that manly way from an early age.
My Mom is everywhere. Often in the form of phantom voicemails I’ll receive days after they were recorded.
My Mom loves a good glass of wine and nice solid sandal.
Most importantly, when I was younger my Mom’s housework song wasn’t something uplifting or classically Motown, but Prince’s “1999.” She would sing it phonetically and rock back and forth like she was hearing that Happy Hour would go on forever. I thought nothing of this in the moment until decades later I was sitting in the audience eagerly awaiting Prince’s unshackled sexuality to sashay across the Prince-shaped stage in the Forum when something unexpected took over.
The first few beats of “1999” boomed through the surround sound speakers, women in low-cut tops and impossibly high heels shook their hips around me, men nodded their heads in approval of his sultry leadership. I was mid-way into saying, “I’M SO TURNED ON RIGHT NOW-” when suddenly my Mother’s face singing the provocative lyrics intercepted my brain. She had officially done the impossible by making the sexiest man alive unsexy.
So, just like Jesus, my Mom can also perform miracles.

Prince alone sparks the scientific question of whether getting pregnant by audio sultriness is a reality. Answer: It is.
My name is Julia Prescott, and I’m praying for no burnt bacon this year.