I don’t have many (high) expectations for Mother’s Day. As long as I can get a nap (the height of luxury) and, if possible, avoid cooking all day, then I can end the day relatively satisfied.
Why is it, then, that I come to the end of most Mother’s Days feeling like a horrible, unappreciated mom?
Yesterday was going fairly well…It started with a dozen roses on Saturday night, and then I was ordered to stay in bed after my alarm went off while my husband and youngest son conspired to cook me a “surprise” breakfast (AJ was sorely disappointed when he discovered that Daddy had let the surprise slip when he asked me what I’d like for breakfast).
I had requested my no-fail waffles, but didn’t realize before hand that CandyMan had never made the batter. He made two fatal mistakes: he used only all purpose flour instead of mostly wheat and he added extra milk because the batter was too “thick.” They weren’t horrible, but they weren’t “my” waffles. The good part, though? I had a sit-down, hot breakfast with my whole family.
I opened my one (non-roses) present – candy (I really have to remember to tell them which candies I want next year!) – and tried not to dwell on the fact that only one of my five children bothered to do anything for Mother’s Day. Apparently, they’re all too old for making cute cards with hand prints on them.
Church went well, especially towards the end when the men took over all of the classes and gave all of the women 20 minutes to sit, chat, and enjoy cheesecake. We drove home and I got ready for my nap.
I hadn’t fallen asleep yet when AJ came up to the bedroom, climbed up to snuggle with me, and ended up staying for some one-on-one time. I was happy to have him. We made some last plans for his upcoming baptism and then he asked to play a game on my iPad.
“No, not right now,” I said, calmly.
“Yes! I want to play that game. You’re mean if you don’t let me play!”
Wow, that escalated quickly. But I stuck with my first answer. “No, I’m going to try to take my nap now. Why don’t you go downstairs and read.”
“I HATE you, Mommy! I hate you!”
I’ve been a mother for enough years that this phrase tends to make me roll my eyes rather than run to the other room crying. Yesterday, AJ got the eye roll…but I was instantly done with him interrupting my nap time.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t done.
“I hate you, Mommy,” he said as he grabbed a dollar bill off the desk and started scrunching it up in his hands. The money made my blood boil a bit and I hopped out of bed to stop him. He saw me coming and scooted quickly to his room, where he barricaded himself behind his door. I got the door open and demanded that he give me the dollar. Whining and yelling at me, he finally showed me where he had thrown it. I picked the dollar up about the same time that he picked up the basket full of clean, folded socks. Holding it high over his head, he threatened to dump it out.
At this point, all I could think about was how quiet the house was. Why in the world was no one coming to Mom’s rescue on Mother’s Day?
The socks did, indeed, get dumped. I grabbed him from his bed, where he had fled this time, and ordered him to pick them up. He refused and instead laid another big one on me:
“Why are you being so MEAN on Mother’s Day?”
I shot back with, “Shouldn’t I be the one asking that question?”
I gave up. I tried going to sleep, but my heart was pounding too fast for sleep to come, so I ended up reading a book instead. 10 minutes later, I walked downstairs, where I found AJ looking out the front window, waiting for Dad to come back from a Mother’s Day flower delivery to some other local moms.
Being a Mom is hard work. I love that we have a day to celebrate the moms in our lives, and I certainly love my own mom (and mother in law – I’ve been blessed). But I think Mother’s Day is too much pressure. I’m kind of glad I don’t have to go through Mother’s Day for another year.
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