Mother's Day this year was a little strange. It's two days later and I'm still scratching my head over it. If I had to pick a color for the day I'd pick something like pea green or fuchsia. You know, one of those slightly off colors.
Chuck was out of town working all weekend; he didn't get home until mid-Sunday morning, so sleeping late wasn't in the cards. After the kids awoke at 7 a.m., I texted 12 of my friends who are mothers and wrote, "Happy Mother's Day! I hope you're still in bed."
Seven of them texted me back to tell me they weren't.
At 9 a.m. I turned on Sunday Morning, one of my favorite shows, and was pissed to find that instead of producing a fabulous and touching show about motherhood and mothers—really, the topic is ripe for introspection and storytelling—they decided to open with a story about breasts—specifically how they are "inspiring and vulnerable."
What the fuck? Inspiring to whom? Men? Vulnerable to whom? Children's teeth?
Good Lord! It was Mother's Day. Couldn't they do better than boobs? The last thing I wanted to hear about— after years of having my breasts fondled, grabbed, shoved into clothing, shoved into my children's mouths, and accidentally kicked by children —was breasts. I once had a lactation expert pick up my breast and squeeze it like it was a bath toy.
I wanted to be reminded of that?
No, I wanted a vacation from my breasts. Instead Sunday Morning wanted to tell me about the history of the bra, how men/society/men are fascinated with breasts, and how there is a "disagreement over whether [breasts] evolved for food or sex."
I clicked off the TV and spat on the ground. The recent Time magazine cover may have added to my ire just a smidgen. (Incidentally, I'd rather eat nails slathered in skunk shit than dignify their "Are you mom enough?" cover with a response.)
So yes, the morning wasn't off to a glamorous start.
Chuck came home at 11 a.m. with flowers and a declaration: I could do whatever I wanted for the rest of the day. I should have gotten into the car and raced around Connecticut, baring my inspiring and vulnerable knockers to the state's fine residents, but I couldn't get out of my fuchsia funk.
I couldn't come up with an answer. What did I want to do on Mother's Day? I already got what I wanted. Now what? Champagne and oysters? A picnic on the lawn? A pool boy and whips?
Noon came and went. Then two. I may have been abducted by aliens around 2:45 p.m. because before I knew it, it was 4:30 p.m. and we were talking about dinner options. Soon it was bath time. Bed time.
As I lay in bed that night I told Chuck I felt detached—apathetic even—to the hoopla that's supposed to be Mother's Day. I said I felt loved every day. I told him how lucky I was to have two beautiful children who clearly think the world of me.
"Maybe it's like Christmas," I said. "After a while the commercialism gets you and you just feel blah..."
Chuck put his head on my shoulder and told me it was okay. He reached out his hand and waved away my uncertainty. Then his hand wandered downward, ever so slightly, and started to make its way toward my most inspiring and vulnerable of places.
"Chuck, " I said. "I'm never watching Sunday Morning again." Then I kissed him, rolled over and went to sleep.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.