Aaaah, Mother’s Day. It’s such a great idea, but it always has the potential to break your heart.
In theory, this is the day of paying tribute to all that we’ve done for our offspring over the course of an entire year. Like held back their hair when they vomited into the toilet, driven to school to drop off their calculator for an important exam (which we’ve reminded them the night before they should pack their calculator for RIGHT NOW), or – the ultimate sacrifice – helped them with their science cell project made from a styrofoam ball that had to be purchased at Michaels.
In truth, we should all know not to expect all that much from Mother’s Day.
The nicest thing that can be said for Mother’s Day is that it’s the one day we’re not in charge. We’re not supposed to be planning anything. The bliss!
But that’s exactly it. Leave the planning to other people, and it’s bound to go wrong. Planning anything is usually the realm of the mother, and when she isn’t doing it, no one is.
I can’t tell you how many years, come 5 pm on Mother’s Day, we have all looked at each other expectantly, wanting to know what our dinner plans are. There never are any. No one has thought to cook a meal, and no one has thought to make a reservation at a restaurant.
In all fairness, it typically starts out with much more promise. In years past, I was the recipient of many breakfast trays laden with lukewarm tea and toast and jam, carried to my bed by eager little hands. Nowadays, this doesn’t happen anymore. Mainly because years of motherhood have resulted in a wake-up time for me that is closer to the time my kids go to bed than when they wake up in the early afternoon. I’ve had people ask me at 4 p.m., in all earnestness, if they could have breakfast now.
But I don’t mind. In fact, I relish the quiet morning with the paper and my cup of tea, even if I have to make it myself. Eventually, people wake up and come up to me and bring me the cards they labored over for days. Or, in some cases, just minutes. It’s the thought that counts.
|This one is the kind labored over for days, I could tell.|
All I ask, really, is that I don’t have to do a lot of cooking or dishwasher unloading on Mother’s Day.
An a hot shower would be nice too.
But alas, it wasn’t to be, not this year. Our hot water heater is a bit finicky, you see. Every once in a while it just goes off, poof. This leaves a whole bunch of hot water in it for those who have the good fortune of tapping into it first. Not me, since one of my Sunday perks is reading the paper and staying in my pajamas all morning.
So everybody took their shower and also took note that it was mostly a cold one, by the end of it. My husband’s shower, so he reported later, was entirely cold. But did anybody think to go to the basement and relight the flame? Nope. Because, you see, that’s what Mom usually does.
I went to my Mother’s Day dinner unshowered, my unwashed hair in a bun.
But other than that it was a fabulous day.