Happy Mother’s Day to me.
My older son works at a sub shop and will probably sleep until 2pm before starting work at 3pm, which means he probably won’t call. That’s ok — he has a steady job and an apartment. This means that I don’t have to avert my eyes when I walk past his old bedroom (which I’m turning into a home office).
My younger son just mowed the grass so that I’ll ferry him across town to his friends’ house. That’s ok — the schlepping will make him more pleasant when I see him for the big cookout this evening. He may even kiss my cheek in public.
My spouse is running a soccer tournament in another county and will swing in for the cookout just in time. That’s ok — with all the men out of the house I can sit outside in the shade and listen to the birds sing.
I plan to read a book and take a nap. The day will fly.
I don’t go in much for Hallmark holidays — the ones that everyone feels obliged to celebrate. I am tempted sometimes to play my “Mother’s Day cards” to get the men in my life to give me the princess treatment, but resist. I put all my cards in on my birthday — the day that’s uniquely mine. If you call me on January 31 I’ll probably answer the phone “Birthday Girl Speaking” since it makes me smile and takes everyone off guard.
I have friends and family members who wouldn’t tolerate the kind of day I have in store. To my eyes, they just set themselves up for disappointment by expecting everyone to drop everything else for mom and be happy about it. I’ll hear plenty of carping from them about the argument that broke out over dinner “On Mother’s Day” and the work that they had to do “On Mother’s Day.”
I count my blessings just as they present themselves — son with a job and apartment, son with friends who are basically good influences, spouse with a worthwhile hobby, and a day in quiet followed by a cookout with our best friends. I’m one fortunate woman.
Now, I’m going to call my mom.