I may be a mother (three times over, if you’re counting and I sure am), but I’m no fan of Mother’s Day.
I mean, I know it’s meant in the nicest possible way, but it just makes people think that sending a bouquet of flowers or springing for brunch on one measly day is thanks enough.
Buying into the Hallmarkiness of the occasion lulls people into this smug sense of even-stevenness, that they’ve paid their dues when that comes nowhere near close to showing appropriate appreciation for someone you peed on regularly for the first 12 months of your life and on whom you spit up so much that she had to change outfits as often as Lady Gaga at the Met Gala, although obviously for not the same reason.
Not to mention all the times that you yelled in a rage “I hate you!” or grumped about how much you DESPISED dinner or forgot you needed to bring doughnuts to school when you were already late for school and she to work and that time you borrowed her favorite fancy skirt and ripped it beyond repair and all these plans you made that then required her shuttle service…
For all that, a card? And a bouquet of peonies?
But, here’s the thing: We do it and we do it all with love* because we are moms, which by the very definition means we are selfless creatures who expect nothing in return.
My Mother’s Day was… uh, interesting. I got my out-of-date phone upgraded (yay!), but that meant the day was filled with tension and incredibly vexing tech problems (boo!). Not exactly relaxing. But, my other gift? It was a spa day at a local resort.
“I know we’ll screw up today,” my husband said upon presentation of the gift card, “but trained professionals will take care of you on another day of your choosing.”
I dunno, that just might square us up. Maybe.
*And a little alcohol