" One day a year - this month – we celebrate [mothers], and if we're lucky enough to have them with us on this earth, we send flowers and take them to the buffet at Western Sizzlin'. The other 364 days, we worry that they'll trip over the dog. It is what the children talk about when we gather in secret to share our misery.
"Momma just won't do right,” someone will sigh.
"Well, she's just headstrong, the dear,” omeone else will reply.
“Are you talkin' about me?” a momma will shout from across the house. They can't hear a lick when you ask them about blood sugar, but whisper something about them, and suddenly they have bat ears. "

― Rick Bragg , Where I Come from: Stories from the Deep South