Cindy Adams Has Some Thoughts on Mother's Day During the Pandemic

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Veteran New York Post columnist and career gossip Cindy Adams gets away with printing such baffling, batshit prose that I consider her a literary renegade and admire her for it. Who could forget her classic column on the evils of Verizon or her pontification on Billie Eilish, which was titled “What’s a Billie Eilish?” and only got wilder from there? At 90, every little thing she does is classic.


She’s back at it in her Thursday column, musing on what the imminent Mother’s Day means during lockdown. Adams hits the ground running:

Mother’s Day.

Taking her out? Where? Escorting her to you? When? Accompanying her for a ride? How? Treating her to a special event? What? Bringing her to a restaurant? Which? Buying theater tickets? When? Selecting red roses? Can’t. Partying? Forbidden. Picking a gift? No store. Sending a card? No shop. Giving her money? Few have it. Ship to her home a new electronic gadget? She can’t work it.

In. Credible. (Also, you can select red roses from online retailers and also have a non-electronic gift shipped to the technologically impaired, but I digress.)

Adams transitions into a story about her own mother, who is long dead. Nonetheless, Adams tells us, “I remaineven unto whatever other lives there area Mother lover.” Good to know. After a brief biography of her mom, Adams takes stock of the celebrity parenting landscape:

Following divorce lawyers, celebrity babies are the new accessory. Once was the Birkin bag. Then the Chihuahuas. Now, Gabrielle Union, Mrs. Alec Baldwin, Cardi B, Blake Lively, Jenna Dewan, even some sexy partridge in a pear tree are into diaper dramas. Let’s only hope they’ll all love, honor and cherish those moms.

K. I do miss the days before celebrities learned how to reproduce and were doting over anthropomorphized Birkin bags.

And then, more personal stuff about her relationship with her mother that actually results in poignance. She discusses visiting her dying mother in the hospital and time’s whittling down of her family. Adams ends with a plea to readers:

As I’ve said every Mother’s Day: For whatever reasons there exist wide gaps between many a Mother and child in many families, it’s not for me to sit in judgment. It’s just that — if within your ability — call. Tell your Mother you love her. I wish I could. I can’t anymore.


It’s moving, full stop. Multivalence is but one of Adams’s several charms. Call your mother.

Some Pig. Terrific. Radiant. Humble.



I can’t get “Mother Lover” out of my head now.

Yes, call your mom if you are speaking to her, OR DON’T. I wasn’t speaking to my dad for a couple father’s days and didn’t call and people made me feel like shit about it because you only “get one dad”. Except my dad is an alcoholic and calling him during that period of time would have meant I had to endure a conversation that went from me being pleasant, to him shouting at me while obviously drunk, to an even more frayed relationship. Giving birth or creating someone doesn’t give you the right to expect things.

Also, as the mom of a young child, while I am thankful for what my mothers and grandmothers did for me, I am not about showering older moms with gifts at the expense of my own sanity in a non-pandemic world. I know so many people who are going crazy to celebrate their moms and mother-in-laws out of obligation while trying to wrestle with one or more feral children. I don’t play that. I’m our only cook and will be doing jack shit on Sunday as I intended to do - Covid or no. Brunch is lousy anyway if you don’t eat pork. I don’t want to spend $150.00 to tell me 3 year old to sit down and stop eating off my plate 500 times.

This has been my mother’s day rant.  Stay the fuck home but, really, just stay the fuck home every year, give the moms in your life a fucking break, feed them food they actually want to eat, and don’t make them do clean up.