“Oh, my boss asked me to work tomorrow and Saturday night.”
“Yeah, and Sunday is Mother’s Day.”
“Oh, it is?” A worried looked seeped into his eyes.
“Yeah, but don’t worry about it, seriously, don’t worry about it.” I smiled. “I’m not your mother.”
Mother’s Day has always been very important to my own mother, and I’m not sure why. All she ever got was some burnt toast, spilt coffee in her bed and maybe a macaroni necklace or two.
We have so many holidays already, I almost feel guilty celebrating Mother’s Day, like maybe I should have to choose…my birthday or Mother’s Day. I choose my birthday.
My kids are two and a half. They understood both Christmas and Easter this year, but that involved them getting stuff. I highly doubt my asking them to behave on Sunday will do any more good than it would do any other day. And really, that’s all I want for Mother’s Day. I want children that behave without me having to redirect them, cajole them, sternly speak to them, guide them. I just want them to be fully-trained, well-behaved human beings without having to put in the work, for just one day. Since I can’t have that, the nice dinner and walk about town can wait, too.
Honestly, every day, if I can take my head out of my butt long enough to realize it, is Mother’s Day. My kids drive me up the wall, they’re incredibly needy, illogical, demanding and frustrating.
They’re also the best Mother’s Day present I will ever receive…every day. Making every day Mother’s Day to me.
Have a happy one.
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