Guest blogger Amanda: Don't hate me! Let me explain.
Each May, the typical American family will treat mom to something special on Mother's Day. When I was a kid, my sisters and I used to wake ours with breakfast in bed and a handful of daffodils pilfered from our neighbor's flowerbeds. We spoiled and pampered her; we painted her nails and styled her hair. We sang songs and drew her elaborate cards. She said it was her favorite day of the year. It was sweet of her to say, but now that I'm a mother, I realize: She was a very good liar.
All I want to do on Mother's Day is to be free of the "mommy" label. I want nothing to do with children on that day. I don't want breakfast in bed, because I'll have to clean up the messy kitchen. And I don't want flowers, because emptying the vase when they die will be just another task on my endless to-do list. So in lieu of flowers and breakfast, just once, I'd rather have some time to myself. Because -- aside from going to the bathroom -- being alone doesn't exist in my world.
I think I deserve a day -- no, make that an entire weekend -- without something I have to do. I don't want to cook for another human being, pick up a toy, make a bed ... or bathe, diaper, dress, sing lullabies to or snuggle a child. As much as I love them (truly, I do -- even if reading this post makes it seem otherwise), I don't want to set eyes on my kids; I don't want them to be within hearing distance of them. Not mine; not anyone else's. (Luckily, I have a husband who is OK with this.)
I want my Mother's Day to-do list to read as follows:
- Arrive at hotel; check in.
- Turn off cell phone.
- Have bubble bath and finish novel.
- Order a giant steak, baked potato and salad. Relish in the fact that I don't have to cut anyone's meat but my own. Stuff face; leave dishes for someone else.
- Order Pay-Per-View.
- Uncork a nice bottle of pino; drink until buzz has me giggly.
- Unplug clock.
- Sleep until whenever I want -- then sleep some more.
- Mosey out of my room and down to spa; get heavenly massage -- preferably from a hot muscly dude.
- Take a shower.
- Drive to nearest Barnes & Noble and meander as long as I want; buy any book that strikes me -- even though it will likely take me years of "toilet time" to finish them.
And then, when I get home to (no doubt) a very harried husband, disorderly house and three rambunctious kids, my life of to-dos will resume until next Mother's Day. But after a weekend of "me" time, I will be recharged and easily reminded of why I do what I do for these people the other 363 days of the year.