I hate my friend Kristen, and it’s all her fault. She has the mom I want. While Kristen’s mom was hunting down matching thread so she could hand-sew merit badges on her daughter’s Brownie uniform, my mom was hunting down husband number five. My mom completely checked out. Good thing I thought it was normal to be left alone for days at time. As long as I had enough Top Ramen in the cupboard, I thought someone cared about me.

Before you think my mom was some kind of monster, there was a time when my mother was very proud of me. She used to go to parties when she was pregnant and show everyone how I kicked so hard, I could almost knock the ashtray off her belly. Now that’s what I call a Hallmark moment.

Ironically, Kristen is the oddity, not me. Some of the most amazing women I know weren’t blessed with perfect childhoods. I’m grateful for bad childhoods because most of the time, bad childhoods, make great adulthoods. Due to my mom’s absence I learned to do laundry, cook, take personal responsibility for my actions and forge signatures on absentee notes. I’m not angry with my mom. I’m sure it was tough to raise a kid all by herself, and I’m sure it was really tough to raise a kid with a smart mouth all by herself. This week it’s my mom’s birthday, and even though she could have done a better job as a mommy, I want her to know someone cares about her, so I’m sending her a case of Top Ramen.

That’s why I’m grateful for bad childhoods.