The author, Debra Gwartney, has experienced a parent's nightmare of difficult teen years with her daughters.

Our estrangement, the not speaking, had come after years of trouble with Amanda and her sister Stephanie...To even mention their father in our household meant a dose of scorn from me, and when the two oldest girls and I began arguing about friends they hung around with, about skipping school, about staying away from the house for days on end...One night when they were 16 and 14, the girls loaded their army packs and headed for the front door, where I stood with feet planted and arms crossed. We collided there, pulling and pushing and grabbing while their two younger sisters cried, "Stop it! Stop!" from the other side of the room.

The two girls ride the rails, go missing, fall into drugs and trouble, and obviously their mother knows pure hell. This essay recounts a tentative detente, a Mother's Day bonding over a Tom Waits concert. Tom Waits, the author explains, had been the soundtrack of her divorce, and for her daughters, of their period of their wild emancipation

"the only adult who could possibly understand why they had hit the road. At least that's how they thought of it. Tom Waits knew what it was like to be torn apart by people who claim to love you; Tom Waits knew why they chose to abandon their home, their sisters, their town, their mother.

When she arrives at the concert, the author realizes her daughter's bought her a ticket some six rows away. But she's glad just to be there, to be speaking, to feel her daughter will allow her in her life. It's unspeakably sad. We've all seen or experienced these relationships: the shift in power whereby a parent becomes pathetically grateful for any contact or any sense of normalcy. To the child, it can seem inexplicable;forget authority or respect - when things get to this point, a parent is eager for crumbs of friendship, happy to walk on eggshells for the privilege of being in a child's life, eager to bond over the music of an artist who may express many things, but for whom normal parental responsibility seems fairly alien. The burden of the love is stifling and reassuring, and something about this essay expresses it perfectly.Even those of us past those tumultuous years have heard that note in our mothers' voices sometimes - eager for our time, grateful to hear our voices - and had moments of sadness at the power shift that's taken place.

I remember riding in the car with my own mom as a pre-teen and her saying how she used to know Tom Waits a little bit in the 70s and how he'd prey on young girls. I wonder if it was true; back then I didn't question it, of course. But either way it made him seem like an especially meaningful choice for a mother-daughter reunion. What's so sad about the essay is that one doesn't know if the author's relationship with her daughters will be repaired, because she clearly has so little control over the situation; she pours her 18-year-old a glass of wine, does her hair, bites her tongue. All the reader can do is hope with her that things will be okay, marvel at the power of parental love, and maybe make a mental note to call home a little more often, if only to help repay the karmic debt that teenage years seem all about amassing.

The Long Way Home [NY Times]

We usually ended up at the grocery store, or the mall, or at the dry cleaners, picking up my dad's suits, but my mom made every car ride a small adventure, turning up her Gloria Estefan or Carly Simon tapes and tapping her wedding ring on the stick shift as she sang aloud (usually words she was making up, but still) and we did the Conga on the way to Stop and Shop to pick up some supplies for tuna noodle casserole. My mother loves to dance—years later, I'd learn that my father used to sneak her into clubs when she was underage (he was two years older and they've been married for 36 years) through a bathroom window so that they could hit the dance floor to Sam & Dave and Junior Walker and the All-Stars. "Mom," my sisters and I teased, "You were such a badass!"

"Oh, for cripes sake," my mother would say. My mother is always saying "For Cripes sake." It is her "Bish, plz," if you will.

My mother lost both of her parents when she was young, and has always said that all she ever wanted was for my sisters and I to have the kind of childhood that she didn't have. Our childhood was ridiculously awesome, filled with love, and laughs, and plenty of Conga-infused car rides. There were difficult times: my mother and I both share the genetic curse of depression, and the stubbornness that comes with an Irish Catholic upbringing that makes talking about said depression quite difficult at times, but one of the most positive aspects of my recovery process from the eating disorder that swallowed most of my twenties was that my mother started a healing process of her own, and now we're closer than ever.

My mother doesn't give herself enough credit for the amazing job she did raising me and my sisters: we are all strong, independent women who were taught that we could be and do anything, and that even when things get scary or sad, those who love you will always be there. And, perhaps most importantly, she taught us that sometimes, life will drive you crazy, and all you can do is go along for the ride, dancing as you head off into whatever adventure awaits.

I love you, Mom. Happy Mother's Day. And this one's for you!

Feel free to leave a note about your mom, or the mother figure in your life, in the comments.

[Image via Someecards]

[Allahabad, India, May 10. Image via AP]

A laborer holds her child on Mother's Day, in Allahabad, India, Sunday, May 10, 2009. (AP Photo/Rajesh Kumar Singh)

[Allahabad, India. May 7. Image via AP]

An Indian woman's hand seen as she walks with her child ahead of Mother's Day, in Allahabad, India, Thursday, May 7, 2009. Mother's Day will be celebrated on Sunday, May 10. (AP Photo/Rajesh Kumar Singh)

"The Mom Translator": Because your mom knows who celebrities are...she just can't ever get their names right.


The tale of Cornelius Timberlake and his hopes for his great-great grandson. There is one line in this skit that everyone will be talking about today, methinks.


The Star Trek boys hit up Weekend Update to address obsessive fans:


And finally, Susan Sarandon and Patricia Clarkson help Andy Samberg and JT live out their "mother lover" fantasies:

For people outside the U.S.: I'm sorry, you guys, I see the comments every time we post these videos, but it's really out of our hands. SNL videos are only hosted on Hulu and NBC.com (they are yanked pretty quickly from YouTube), so it's better to complain to them about providing international access, not us. Also, I've tried both NBC.com clips and Hulu clips this morning and it seems that there's a bit of a lag in both (I'm guessing that they are being linked all over the place today) so it might take a second for some of these to load. But it's worth it, I promise.

• We agreed we would lie to our kids about our debauched pasts. There will be fewer than eighteen of them, trust.
  
• You could do a lot of debaucherous damage with these crazy underoos from the International Male folks.
  
• We didn't just talk about International Males, we discussed international and race relations, and vowed to try harder.
  
• We also gave some real talk about sex writing.
  
• More real talk: forgetting there's a tampon in your twat.

• We got to know virgin-hoarding cult leader Michael Travesser and his band of wack jobs.
• We got some LOLs out of douchefessionals John Fitzgerald Page and Paul Janka.
• We said goodbye to our own Jennifer, who is departing for greener Polo pastures. She will be missed!
• This weekend, pour one out for all the white wine drinking, on-the-toilet phone talking, track suit wearing mommas out there. Happy Mothers Day, moms; we love you!

Mother's Day [YouTube]