Hummingbirds are called hummingbirds because of the humming noise that their wings make as they beat, sometimes up to 80 times per second.

If their wings couldn't beat so fast, they couldn't drink the nectar that fuels their lives and they wouldn't hum.

If they didn't hum, what would we call them?

My father's career is not a job, but rather an occupation with creativity. Sometimes I think he's addicted to the promises attached to musical success; the fame, the glory, the chance to prove himself in the world. But most other times, I think he's just addicted to sound and movement. He hums when he flosses, when he dresses, as he stirs his coffee. I caught him one time, playing his guitar on the toilet.

My father stunted his budding musical career to stay at home and raise me. He loves me, I am his pseudofocus. He's good at pretending not to look back.

Thump, thump, thudullapptsshh. OWwwwmuuttthherrrfuck-er!

Ah, tripping up the stairs: a talent of mine, made better through a shit ton of practice. With my face pressed up against the peeling paint of the porch, I can hear Dad in the basement, practicing. I can't tell whether it's arpeggios or Jerry Lee Lewis he's pounding out. Either way, he won't hear the doorbell, or the phone ring.

He's focused and I'm locked out.

From afar in your orbital, you're drawn to the light: you want to move closer, to drink the illumination.

Do so, find that we burn, scald whoever comes near us. We repel the gravitational pull with flames.

Planets, green with life, keep your distance!

We're paying all of this money, and you just sit around and watch television all afternoon, he says.

What does he know about money? It's all my mother's. He's off in his own orbital, focusing on music and being a pain in the ass. (This is a lie. I wish it were true.) Nowhere near my mother and me.

I bet Lucy doesn't have to scream and pull teeth to get Sophie to practice. She's in the Level VI book now, playing sonatas. I know that Disney songs are fun, Emily, but they're not real music. You should be playing real music by now.

My mom buzzes around in tailored pantsuits all day, the type you see female politicians wear. She has tiny feet, size 5, and often buys three or four pairs of the same shoe if they happen to both fit her well and come in different colors. Souls wear through quickly when they are walked and stomped and trampled on, and my endless efforts to repel do so to hers a lot.

In the spirit of Mother's Day, I cannot help but indulge in the cliche: my mom is the most selfless, devoted person that I have ever known. There is no telling what my mother wouldn't do if I only asked her.

But it's too much. She's too good.

Though her martyrdom comes with the best of intentions, there comes a point! In every child's life! When they need their parents to hate them right back, to not give a crap, to also slam a goddamn fucking door!