Those of you who actually know me are probably aware of how I like to occasionally rib my mother with exaggerated tales of her “failures” in the parenting department.  Admittedly, there aren’t many, which is why I like to dramatize the ones I can remember – like the time she made me go to Girl Scout camp sick and I nearly fainted during the flag ceremony or when she ignored my complaints of illness only to finally give in and take me to the doctor where she learned I had mono.

To be fair, my mom’s a nurse, and as any child of a nurse will tell you, when it comes to claimed illnesses unless you’re bleeding from every orifice while simultaneously writhing and vomiting on the floor chances are pretty good that said nurse-parent will tell you to suck it up and get over yourself.

That being said, I now have another failure to add to my repertoire – she forgot my birthday yesterday.  I’m tempted to text her and only ask if she was perhaps rendered unconscious yesterday or maybe kidnapped and duct taped to a chair.  Just to see if it jogs her memory.  On the other hand, I could remain silent until she finally remembers and then play the wounded child card for all its worth.