If you know me at all, you know how much I look forward to Mother’s Day. It is, after all, one of only two days in a whole year that is entirely devoted to moi. (The other is my birthday, which I frankly milk just as strongly as Mother’s Day but don’t enjoy nearly as much because, well, you know.)
My most interesting Mother’s Day to date occurred two years ago. Ah, that fateful morning which began with everyone hollering at me about breakfast fare, and ended with George (then 3) wishing David a Happy Mother’s Day.
Typically, I begin Mother’s Day with two words: “See ya!” Also, I should note that I believe fathers should spend all day on Father’s Day with their children. Double standard? Yes. And I’m okay with it.
This year I’m doing something that might surprise you. I’m choosing to celebrate my children and their undying devotion to me on Mother’s Day instead of expecting them to celebrate me. (Clearly, I’m already setting myself up.) Now, do I think for 2 seconds that they’ll appreciate this approach? No. I do not.
I’m going to write each of them a letter, to be presented on Mother’s Day morning with much the same fanfare with which I always hope breakfast in bed will be (but never is) served. In these letters, I intend to let them know why I’m so thankful to have each of them in my life.
Because even though they claim they want another family when I announce that I don’t buy Bubblicious, teeter on the outside ledge of the second-story loft banister, and throw water balloons at me—while I’m working in my (carpeted) office, without these antics, I would not be able to wake up on this glorious day that is supposed to be all about me and wonder in how many years it might actually be.
But, lest it appear I’ve completely lost my mind, let me clarify that after I deliver their letters to them and kiss them and hug them so tightly that they scream, “I want another mother!,” I’m outta here.
