Mother’s Day? Pshaw.

That one day that sells so many Hallmark cards and Russell Stover chocolates is coming up. Six days. What do they call it? Oh yeah, Mother’s Day.

I like the idea behind having a day to pamper Mom and serve her breakfast in bed. It’s a peaceful enough thought. But once put in practice, it terrifies me.

I do not want my three- and five-year-olds serving me breakfast in bed.

First of all, they don’t know how to make coffee. Not that I could drink it, anyway, I’ve given it up for the moment. So they’d have to pour me juice. Knowing them, they’d put bubbles in it (carbonated water – not so good with the orange juice).

Then comes the actual food. I imagine B.R. can make a mean toast, and J.J. can spread a mean jam. I’ve watched her do that much. She really ends up wearing it pretty well. Upon realizing that they cannot scramble my eggs or heat up my oatmeal, they’d probably decide that Mama would really like a bowl of cereal with too much milk. They wouldn’t be all wrong.

Now comes the trick of serving breakfast in bed. Up the stairs, past the big ornery rottweiler puppy, two hands on the glass, and two hands on the bowl. I’m sure the toast would be getting pretty soggy by now. Trying to figure out how to open the door with both hands full and the dog waiting for them to drop something. Leaning on the door and realizing it wasn’t really shut in the first place, stumbling into the room and sloshing just a little juice on the floor, making the dog very happy.

Poking mom and yelling at her, “Happy Mother’s Day!!” thereby wresting her from the clutches of a steamy dream involving Pickle and performance art, and also scaring her half to death until she sees the two smiling, jam-stickied, angelic faces holding a very messy breakfast out to her. As she sets the dishes down and risks the transference of jam onto her own person with hugs and kisses, they wait eagerly, expectantly for mom to take that first bite.

And she does. And takes that first sip of bubbly orange juice, too. And she relishes the sweetness of her babies.

“Mama, can I have a bite? I’m hungry.”

Inevitable.

And then I’d have to get out of bed and start the day any like any other. There’s no pampering for this mama. And you know what? I think I like it that way. I can’t fathom what I would do with myself otherwise. I’d go a little crazy from boredom, I think.

Besides, if I’m not hanging out with them, that means that they’re with Pickle, and they’re already picking up enough of her habits. I’m pretty sure B.R. just learned how to belch the national anthem. I don’t think I need to know what kind of tricks they can do with the gas that comes out the other end….

So Hallmark can take their Mother’s Day and stick it with their crumpets. I get more than enough appreciation every other day, even if it means waiting until 1 am after the youngest is done puking and seeing that peaceful expression that says, “Thanks, Ma. I really do feel better now.” Or the oldest to say, “Mom, I need to lay down. Will you come rest with me?”

Those moments are so small, easy to miss if you don’t know to look for them. And in each one of them, there’s a thousand thanks.

And then someone has to go and fart and the moment’s lost forever. Ugh.

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