Yesterday a  man kidnapped his mother and led police on a high speed chase, which ended in a neighborhood not far from here. I’m assuming there was mental instability at play, or drug issues, but the thought that sprung to mind when I read about it was, “Why is it always the mother?”

Whether it’s wearing them as a hat, or blaming them, or going all Norman Bates taxedermy-rocking-chair-I-love-you-forever-mommy… it’s always about the mother.

In our house, thanks to my darling toddler, it’s all about me. In the past this would have seemed like heaven.  I won’t lie, I like the spotlight. But now the spotlight is hot. It makes me sweat and chew my fingernails. It’s all about me. I got my wish.

It’s all about me when I go to the bathroom and she lies outside on the floor, one intense eye peering under the door while she wails, “Mommmmeeeeee.”

It’s all about me at 2 in the morning when she wakes up without covers and screams, “Mommmeeee.”

It’s all about me when I get ready in the morning and Jane rips the mascara tube out of my hands mid brush stroke and stripes underneath my eye with an ink black line, but I somehow don’t notice it until I get to work and a coworker mentions it, and it looks like I’m poking fun at Native American face painting, or worse, trying to be a football player.

When her food is too hot.

When she falls down and stubs her toe.

When she needs someone to make her dolls stand up and talk to each other.

When she wants someone to drink the imaginary tea she made.

When she needs to jump out and yell “boo.”

When she wants to pet Mabel, and Mabel won’t let her, and they chase each other around the living room, disgruntled, mad, hurt feelings on both sides…

It’s all about me.

It’s always about the mother.

And I’m cool with that.

Especially if there’s a glass of wine waiting at dinner.