Happy Mother’s Day, To Me

I really never gave much thought to Mother’s Day--until I became a mother.

After 20 years playing this gig, I can say without remorse that being a Mom is mostly a miserable job.

The mental and physical strain is relentless.   One Sunday a year hardly negates the psychological damage that goes along with the coveted title of Mom.

Being a Mom is like running a marathon.

Middle of the night feedings may be the only training you’ll receive to prepare you for when your sixteen-year-old daughter breaks curfew.

And the tiny infant who hasn’t learned to smile almost prepares you for the teenager who’s lost that ability to oblige you. 

I’ve learned that Mother’s Day is what you make it.  There’s no point getting your feelings hurt.  I took charge and celebrated it myself the day before. 

It was great.

On Sunday, I woke to John pawing at me from his side of the bed.  

I didn’t need to look at the time to know it was way too early for that.

Without opening my eyes, I grumbled, “It’s my day, not yours.”

When I woke the second time, it was from the bacon-scented alarm clock beckoning from the kitchen below.  Sitting at the head of the table--in obvious anticipation of morning deliciousness--was Kenny.  Looking much different than he had the night before. 

His eyes were a mosaic of green slime and yellow crustaceans, and were almost entirely swollen shut.

“Morning, Mommy,” he said with the faraway look of Helen Keller.

As I poured myself a cup of coffee, John made exaggerated motions to step around me, obviously insulted by my block at his Mother’s Day pass. 

Maybe my family repressed the day, because I hadn’t yet heard a single Mother’s Day salutation.

When I prompted Kenny to retrieve my gift from his backpack, uninterested he said,

“Maybe later, Mommy."

And when Stancey sat down for breakfast, I prompted her as well.

“I’ll make you a card or something later,” she replied before finishing off the last of the coffee and pushing her chair away from the table.

And when Madison came down, I reminded him as well.

“That’s today? “ he mumbled.  “I thought it was next weekend.”

Later that day as Kenny's pink eyes and I waited in the doctor’s examining room (yes, our pediatrician really does have Sunday hours), I thought it was pretty fitting that of all the places I could be spending Mother’s Day, it was no accident that I was spending it there, doing what I do almost every other day.

All those promptings, however, were not in vain.  Stancey did, in fact, make me a card.  Kenny, once the cloud of snot cleared from his eyes, gave me the poem and picture he made at school.  Sam reminded me of the geranium he gave me on Friday, and Mayle, my underage daughter, somehow managed to come up with a great bottle of wine.

And Madison? I’ll assume he’ll catch up with me next Sunday, when Mother’s Day fits better into his schedule.