I’m not boycotting Mother’s Day, but I’m not looking forward to it.
I want to sleep late and then have coffee and breakfast tacos, but that also describes what I want to do every morning.
I think Georgia is making me some sort of craft involving pipe cleaners and/or uncooked pasta, and we’re all planning to catch a showing of Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret at some point.
Mostly, though, I’d rather spend the day curled into a ball under the covers.
When my kids were tiny, I did the math and realized that one day, in what seemed like the distant future, I’d have a 16-year-old daughter and an 11-year-old daughter.
“Oh, God, can you even imagine?!” I’d joke to friends sometimes. “I’m going to have to run away from home, probably.”
And they’d laugh, sort of half sympathetically and half in a way that meant they were glad it was me and not them.
My own mom, though, just said, “You can always send them to me! Gigi will take care of them when you need a break!”
Now that the day is almost here, with Georgia’s 11th birthday fast-approaching on the 30th, it is sort of shocking how quickly it all went. Everyone tells you not to blink … but I swear, it truly feels like one was just in pre-K while the other was strapped to my chest in a Moby Wrap … and yet here we are, one driving and one asking when she can start shaving her legs.
And the worst part, of course, is that my mom isn’t here to help or even just listen patiently and tell me it’s all just a phase and that I will survive it.
I’m not feeling particularly festive.
But there will be coffee and breakfast tacos and movies and crafts …
It won’t be all bad.
I’m still ready for it to be over, though.
