Joan Pearlman

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My mom hates appearing on this blog.

Like, she hates, hates, hates, hates, hates it.

But, well, I don’t care. It’s her birthday, and she’s my mother, and I love her. So fuck it. She’s here—like it or not.

I call my mom every day. Every. Single. Day. She thinks that’s because I still feel guilty about moving from New York to California. Is convinced of it. And she’s wrong. I call my mom every day because I always enjoy talking to her. From the time I was very young, I’ve felt an uncommon son-mother kinship with Mom that transcends son-mother. We’re friends. Always have been friends. I sorta feel like I’m the daughter my mom never had. She’d ask my opinions on outfits beginning when I was 7 or 8. We’d take long walks through Mahopac and chat about this and that, that and this. She’d explain things to me that adults don’t often explain to children—human dynamics, bad intentions, vulnerability. I learned to read people from my mom. Developed a keen bullshit detector from my mom.

Mom never asks for credit, or expects it. She has no ego, and never brags. She was an amazingly supportive daughter to her mother, without ever asking for anything in return. She’s an amazingly supportive mother to me and my brother, without ever asking for anything in return.

I’m gonna keep calling every day—whether she likes it or not.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

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