Didn’t think it was possible, did you? 

It’s worse than Valentine’s Day. It’s worse than birthdays. In fact I may ban its celebration entirely–in my honor, anyway–not for my own mother or all the other mothers on the planet. 

I didn’t want jewels or gifts or a giant fuss and I didn’t want to be Queen for a Day or have Sweet Cheeks and Pitter at my feet. I didn’t make specific requests for what I “wanted” despite my husband’s kind request. All I really wanted was a “nice” weekend with my boys. I wanted Pitter to behave well, to be witty and sweet and fun. Playgrounds or other outdoor activities usually ensure this version of his personality. I wanted my bathrooms to be clean. I wanted to perhaps have a nice lunch out, and to feel competent about my role as a mother, proud even. 

Instead, on the one nice day of the weekend, Sweet Cheeks had the unfortunate task of mowing our lawn for almost the entire day, which ate up any away-from-the-neighborhood-together-as-a-family plans. And yesterday we had the rainstorm from hell which ended at 8 pm. All we managed to do was go out to lunch. Pitter suffered from a cough and an affliction known as Sir Whines Alot the entire weekend, and I sure as hell didn’t clean a bathroom.

Because it was Mother’s Day weekend, the weekend was a total failure. And so, after a period of Pitter doing regular toddler things like breaking my new sunglasses, putting a nice dent in the dining room wall with the edge of a chair, and smacking and clawing at my face while I tried to put him down for a nap, I went into a psychotic rage and flew out of the house in tears. Bad enough behavior from a grown woman on a regular Sunday…devestating on Mother’s Day itself.

When I couldn’t have a pleasant, totally unstressful, regular weekend (eg THE KIND ONLY WOMEN WITHOUT CHILDREN EVER HAVE), everything else bubbled to the surface. I still really miss Boston. I still really miss my friends. I am starting to have regular nausea again and I don’t really want to face childbirth again and why does it seem like every decision I’ve made in the last three years has lead to misery? 

All of this was already there. But the pressure of feeling triumphant and blessed as a mother on one particular day pushed me over the edge. Why do we ever think we’ll find joy or pleasure on one specific day on the calendar? Haven’t we lived long enough to know that this is the very elusive stuff of life we chase our tails to find every morning we wake up? 

My “Mother’s Day” sure as hell wasn’t yesterday. But I’ll find it another day. Maybe this afternoon, even. 

 

 

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