Illustration for article titled Cindy Adams Has Some Thoughts on Mothers 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.

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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.

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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.

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

Some Pig. Terrific. Radiant. Humble.

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