Unless you are living under a rock, (0r never make it to your local Target,) you’re well aware that Mother’s Day is quickly approaching on the second Sunday in May. Woodrow Wilson proclaimed it an official national holiday in 1914 and ever since then, card companies, chocolatiers and rose growers have rejoiced over every baby born, knowing that yet another woman will need to be celebrated come spring. Hallelujah! We mothers have earned that day, dammit! I’m quite sure even Hilary Rosen would agree.
So, how did Mother’s Day turn into yet another day where we are expected to work?
In the very best of worlds, ours is a day filled with stuffy brunches we need to reserve, bouquets of flowers and store bought cards. Instead of getting the day off, Mother’s Day has somehow become just another day that we need to make our children look their Sunday best, trim stems from flowers that will beg to be fed or quickly wilt away and clean up after well intentioned children prepare us inedible breakfasts in bed. And, that’s the best case scenario.
It’s quite obvious that a man concocted this current interpretation of our holiday.
And, why do we get a single day? Don’t we deserve at least a weekend? Or, a week? Maybe even a National Mother’s Appreciation Month? I mean, there’s actually a National Chocolate Covered Raisin Day. A day, celebrating a dried out grape coated in chocolate. Oh, sure, they’re delicious, but delicious enough to justify a national holiday? I’m quite sure a chocolate covered raisin has never dashed to the ER at 3AM with a screaming ear infected toddler or extracted a penny from a two year old’s nose. What’s to celebrate?
There’s also National Hug an Anchor Day. Are news anchors really that in need of affection? National Catfish Day celebrates the “value of farm-raised catfish,” and National Grammar Day celebrates… good grammar. There’s even National Scrapbooking Day and National Chicken Dance Day. And, just like the fish and the scrapbookers, we mothers get a single stinking day. It’s certainly nothing worth breaking into the Chicken Dance for.
So, this year, I’m taking my day back. We mothers spend our entire existences putting everyone else first and I’m sick of it. If I’m given a day, I’m going to take that day and make it my own. Enough is enough. This year, I’m asking for – no demanding — an Anti-Mother’s Day.
For one day, all I want is to be left alone and not be a mother. I want to sleep late and be the spouse who plays dead when the children holler for breakfast. I want to pee with the door actually closed and not wipe a single nose or behind. I want to shower without an audience for a change. I want to not wash laundry and not do the dishes and not be the one to find the missing mate for the shoe which seems to simply have walked off on its own. I want none of it, for once.
At the end of my day, I will surely miss the little faces I so adore. I’ll tire of the peace and quiet I constantly crave. I’ll long for their hugs and slobbery kisses and I will savor hearing what they’ve done with their day away from me. I won’t even mind getting splashed as I give them their bath or reading the same bedtime story twice. I’ll actually enjoy it all again, having been given the rare day off. And I’ll count down the days until I get it all again.
364 and getting closer every day.