I don’t care who invented it. Perhaps some greedy florist or greeting card company, but it’s the only day of the year in which moms are feted, honored, gifted, and showered with appreciation for their roles as birth-givers, boo-boo kissers, vomit cleaner-uppers, laundry pile attackers, and vacuum cleaner rodeo clowns.
I’m referring to Mother’s Day, that grand time of year when a mom dreams of being gifted diamond earrings by a sentimental husband who cannot thank her enough for being the vessel of his precious offspring (I SAID it was a dream!). It is a day when a mom dreams of breakfast in bed, handmade by the sticky, snot-covered fingers of her brood to show their love for the woman who kisses their foreheads to check for fevers, and allows chewing gum to be spat directly into her sanitary, outstretched hand for disposal.
Mothers nationwide hope that on Mother’s Day, they will be freed from chores, daily duties, and sibling rivalry for a span of a mere 24 hours. They dream of being served catered or carried-out meals so they can unchain themselves from the kitchen momentarily. They wonder if this will be the one and only day out of 365 annually in which they can sleep until noon.
Yeah, right. In my house, Mother’s Day is the day when all hell breaks loose. The first bubble to burst is my dream of sleeping in. Oh, it starts innocently enough. I am awakened by the sweet, sonic boom-like toddler whispers of my youngest, reminding Hubs loudly in his ear the significance of the day. Startled by The Toddler’s earwax-melting volume and figuring that he still has time before I realize he’s forgotten this special occasion, Hubs bolts upright, grabs his keys, and heads for the car. Wearing a raincoat over his pajamas, he drives to the nearest gift shop to purchase the card he forgot to buy all week, leaving The Toddler in his place on the bed.
Toddlers cannot accept that big people actually sleep. They truly believe that it’s a parent’s job to remain awake 24 hours a day, if only to be at their beck and call. They also believe it is their job to pry your eyes open with urine-scented fingers, place their face nose-to-nose with yours, and ask, “Mommy? Are you dead in there?” hoping the dead shall rise and make them breakfast, which of course Zombie Mommy does. After all, it’s Zombie Mommy’s Day.
Upon entering the kitchen, the sight of the older kids’ carnage makes me want to play dead again. “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! We’re making your breakfast!” they shout with glee across a kitchen mess. Every pot, pan, bowl, and utensil has been used and abused in their quest to scramble an egg and make toast. The sink, stovetop, and floor are equally well lubed with more grease than Elvis’s hair, making each step a dangerous tiptoe through a minefield. I start praying that I won’t slide into a full body cast.
Mother’s Day should be nicknamed “Black Sunday.” While I have never seen a black chicken much less its egg offspring, I still manage to scrape the charred tar off my sunny side ups and act like they’re caviar and lobster. The kids, pleased with themselves, order me to stay seated as they scurry off to get their gifts. This brief moment of peace allows me to unload my stuffed cheeks into the commode.
By this time, Hubs arrives through the door, panting and exasperated from driving all over town to find a store open at 7:00 a.m. on a Sunday. He hands me an envelope and beams. “Happy Mom’s Day, Hon!” he smiles. I start to read the card aloud, but stop when I get to the “Happy Birthday!” part to save him the embarrassment. In all our years of wedded bliss, Hubs has never purchased the right card for the right occasion. He once gave a “Sorry About Your Loss” card to a new bridegroom and gifted a “Happy Retirement!” card to a newly widowed neighbor lady. He makes these mistakes because he always grabs the first card he sees and then jets from the store before one of his buddies catches him in the act of sensitivity.
I kiss Hubs for his (cough, cough) thoughtfulness as the kids scramble downstairs with their frankincense and myrrh. “Open mine first!” demands Teen Girl.
“Oh, honey! Thank you! I always wanted the new ‘NStynk CD and a fuzz-covered gel pen set!” I gush.
“You’re welcome, Mom. Oh, by the way, can I borrow them?”
“Me next!” my son yells excitedly and thrusts his raggedly wrapped gift into my hands.
“My goodness, son. Did you make this? It’s lovely!” I say, trying to hide the fact that I have no clue what this gob of Silly Putty and string is supposed to be.
“I know you like handmade stuff the best, so I made it just for you, Mom! Go ahead and put it on!” he says proudly.
Hesitating momentarily, I loop the thing around my neck and smile at my son, whose face turns pale as his eyes tempt tears. “Mooooom! It’s not a necklace! It’s a headband!” he whimpers. Guess he’s seen too many pictures of me from the 1960s.
“Oh, yes, well, I knew that, dear. I, uh, always like to keep your gifts close to my heart! Yeah, that’s it!”
Hubs announces that he and the kids will clean the kitchen. This means that the dishes will eventually make it to the dishwasher without rinsing first, and the tar-encrusted frying pans will be left to soak (read: Mom will scour them later that night.) Something is bound to be broken as the three characters I call my family toss plates and glasses to each other like bad circus jugglers. The floor will be ignored, allowing the grease to gel into a fine sheet of slippery ice-like surface on which Mom will eventually break her leg.
My nerves are now set on the “fried” mark, but I am resigned to making this day special whether they like it or not. I attempt to ignore the pending catastrophes of the day and slip quietly downstairs to the rec room for a nap. One would think these highly intelligent people would know better than to poke a hibernating bear on her special day. But no, these cretins insist on playing billiards and Nintendo games within a few feet of my shaking, afghan-draped body, all the while arguing the “Marquis de Queensbury” rules of fair play in voices that can be heard in Asia.
Crawling upstairs to my bedroom, I find a Barbie nudist colony on my bed with The Toddler. “Hiya Mommy! Can we sweep wif yoo?” she asks sweetly. I tuck all 200 of us under the covers as my baby cuddles up close. Her angel soft hair brushes gently across my cheeks as she whispers with chocolate-scented breath, “I wuv voo, Mommy” then promptly falls into a deep slumber in my arms.
Forget the pile of dishes and the slick floors. Forget the noise and the sibling warfare. Forget the fact that Hubs is now on the golf course with three of his closest beer-buying buddies while I deal with the fallout of my day. This precious, tiny, God-given body next to mine is what it’s all about, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
As long as there are kids in my life, every day will be Zombie Mommy’s Day.