Mother’s day is not for me. I was convinced of that fact yesterday, and it was confirmed this morning, as I struggle with a severe case of the Mondays, with an extra dose of exhaustion, and unfamiliar aches and pains.
Mother’s day is for parents of adult children. Children who have jobs and can afford to buy you a bouquet, or at least a card give different kinds of gifts than those that are still in diapers. Parents of adult children are pleasantly surprised when one of their offspring joins them on the pew on Sunday and then offers to take them to lunch. Mothers like me who have to dress our children for, and then drag them to church on Sunday do not have the same experience. I have to practically wrestle to get all three of mine to sit in a pew. I’ve got one who kicked her shoes off, and another crawling on the floor tearing up his nice church pants. By the end of morning service, I generally have a run in my stockings, Cheeto stains on my skirt, and a pounding headache. Mother’s day makes it that much worse, as we actually have to struggle to be on time, as the pews will likely be filled with other mothers and their children, some of whom hadn’t been to church since Easter.
Mother’s day is not for me, because it’s still my job to clean up the kitchen after my lovely little people made breakfast for me. I still have to wipe the juice and bread crumbs from the counters, wash all the dishes (why do they use so many dishes) and sweep and possibly mop the floor. Or maybe it’s an odd year, and we have enough money to splurge on brunch. In which case, my head is throbbing because I’m going to have to pay $10 for chicken nuggets and french fries, and argue with the oldest about why she can’t order the lobster scampi from the adult menu.
Mother’s day is not for me, because it’s still my job to make sure my mother and my mothers-in-law(lucky me, I have two), aunties, cousins, and friends feel appreciated. I’ve got to shop and plan deliveries, purchase cards, and I will inevitably leave somebody out. Somebody will be missing from the list…and I’ll feel like crap, because of course, those other mothers deserve to know how wonderful we think they are. They are absolute blessings and I want each of them to know it.
Mother’s day, like every other day of the year, is for my children. It is so they can show me their handy work with pipe cleaners and crayons. It’s so they can test out their newly learned language skills, and write me a heartfelt poem. Best card I got this year was from my boy. It read
“Pop, pop, fizz, fizz.
A great mother you is!”
This toppled my brother’s “Apples, Apples” poem for the most notorious family poem. This is no small feat, as “Apples, Apples” has been at the top of the chart for more than 20 years.
Mother’s day was created so that they can feel good about themselves. It was created so these tiny little creatures who have wrecked our bodies and our homes, and zapped every bit of energy we used to have, can say “I made that awesome thing for mom. I’m a great kid. I’m probably her favorite.”
And each of them would be right.
I don’t hate mother’s day, but it is not a “holiday” for people like me. We are always the mother, and therefore there is always work to be done.
You know what day I really want? “Not the Mama” day. When the answer to every question is Not the Mama. Can you get me some juice? Not the mama. Will you help me find my shoes? Not the Mama. What’s for dinner? Not the Mama.
So basically, what I’m saying is I’m effing tired. Cut me some slack for the next 24 hours, okay? Is that too much to ask?
Yes, of course it is. What was I thinking?
I am the Mama, after all.