Decoding Your Mother's Smirk

Because it usually doesn't mean she is pleased.

A smirk is not a smile. It’s not the face I make when I’m pleased. No two smirks are the same—each carries its own flavor of irritation, disbelief, or quiet dread. Here’s a guide to mine.

This is the face I make after my son begs for a $5 peach at the Farmer’s Market because he’s starving and swears he’ll eat the whole thing—then takes one bite, hands it back, and skips off without a care in the world, leaving me with a sticky piece of fruit and $4.99 worth of regret.

Here’s my smirk when my husband tells me about a new supplement he discovered on X that’s going to “revolutionize his health,” even though I know it will spend the next six to twelve weeks gathering dust on the counter before I throw it away.

This is the expression after someone I barely know shares something they find life-changing, but I find horrifying—like using AI to write a card to their wife. My squinting eyes are holding back my rage.

Here’s my smirk when I’m told to “smile for the picture” while I’m clearly in the middle of doing something else.

This is the look I give when my son proudly announces he put away all his clothes—but really just shoved them into drawers like he was smuggling drugs. I want to reward his effort without showing my disappointment.

The one I make when someone offers me “feedback” I never asked for. My eyes are too cheerful here; ideally, there should be a hollowness to them—the look of a soul leaving its body.

And finally: the smirk reserved for the beloved daycare teacher who informs me it’s our turn to bring home “Miss Pinky,” the germ-infested stuffed class flamingo, and not only house her for a week but also document the whole ordeal and make it “original.”

You’ve seen my smirks. Now show me yours. Drop a heart if you laughed—or better yet, send it to a friend and make them laugh too.