An Open Letter to Mother's Day

Dear Mother's Day,

I'm writing you this letter because I owe you an apology, but before I do that, allow me to vent my frustration at why I feel the need to write this letter in the first place. 

Over the past three months I have received over 1,000 (yes, one thousand) emails telling me I should "prepare for the exciting big day." I've been told "I deserve a drink!" and "to put my feet up!" That "being a mom is hard work and you must be so tired you deserve a pink martini with a high heel sticking out of it!" etc etc etc everything terrible and cliche and lame and OH GOD, is this what motherhood is? Counting down to the one day a year where my family tells me they love me with homemade gifts they were told to make at school and me in a robe with pink slippers and my hair in rollers and one of those 50's era magnets where the women are on rotary telephones, like, "how did I get myself into this mess?" And it all feels so archaic and gross and cardboard cut-out feather duster no. 

And because of that (and the 78979823 thises and thats and commercials for chocolate covered strawberries for "the mom who really just sacrifices so much and deserves a chocolate covered strawberry on her big day"), you, Mother's Day, are the one day out of the whole year that I would like to not be a mother. Because I don't want a special chocolate covered strawberry WTF does that even mean.

So when I overheard Hal and the kids quietly plotting about trying to do something special for me on Sunday I did a really shitty thing. I made other plans. 

In my head I felt I was doing them a favor. I was liberating them from the pressure that a day like Mothers Day provides. Because I didn't want them to do anything for me out of obligation. I don't want anyone to do anything for me out of obligation, but especially not them. That's energy better spent elsewhere. On things that aren't obligatory, you know?

Kind of like how everyone leaves "happy birthday" messages on everyone's Facebook pages just because Facebook is like, "wish this person happy birthday" and then we're all supposed to be, like, "thumbs up" even though it doesn't mean anything. Click click type type click.

And for what?

Because a computer told us to? Because an alert went on in the corner sidebar of our virtual lives?

LOL? Nobody is laughing out loud, you guys. Laughing out loud is the exact opposite of typing LOL. And yet...

And yet. 

And yes. I am WAY overthinking this action and I know that. I'm an overthinker and I'm sorry, Mother's Day, but that's just how I roll. I cannot just hang out and have a "special day to unwind and get a massage," I must question the day and swear off massages from now on because I hereby equate them with "being a mom is so hard you deserve a break emails" instead of, you know, actual back pain. 

Last year I wrote this post. And then this year I reposted that post here and have been running around cursing your name and rolling my eyes at all of the ways you have bombarded me and every other human these past few months. 

Which is why I'm writing you this letter. To make peace. To be friends. Because Sunday was lovely. Sunday was beautiful and real didn't feel cardboard at all. Sunday was YOU and it was ME and I felt genuinely loved and my mother felt genuinely loved and my Nana did too and my aunt. 

And here's the thing. 

I wouldn't have made a plan to spend the day with my mother and grandmother if it wasn't for you, MD. (We're on an initial basis now because BFF.) My family and I wouldn't have gone down to San Diego for a day of garden frolicking and hand holding and cheese eating and blankie dragging if it wasn't for you.

My daughter wouldn't have made me a bracelet with her name backwards in bead letters on accident and my son wouldn't have drawn a picture of us pushing a stroller together. My dad wouldn't have tried to hide in a bush with his Teva sandals sticking out and my husband and I wouldn't have high-fived each other after successfully transitioning four sleeping children from their carseats into their beds after our drive home.

Or maybe we would have. 

Maybe they would have. 

Maybe everything that happened would have happened regardless of you. 

But I'm guessing praaaahbably not. 

Which is why I'm writing you this letter. Which is why I'm sorry I've been saying all of the things I've been saying. I mean it isn't your fault you've been manipulated into this beast of a fauxliday. You're wonderful at your core, MD. 

And I had a moment, in the garden, after spending the last several days being a complete asshole and cursing your name all over my virtual neighborhood, where I recognized this. And I apologized to Hal for being shitty and my kids for ruining what I'm sure would have been a genuine and from-the-heart plan. And I wanted to apologize to you as well because, you're not so bad really at all. You're actually kind of nice. And yes, you're kind of (totally) forced, but your sentiment is real. 

I felt incredibly loved Sunday. I even cried. I held my kids' homemade from the heart/assigned gifts and I cried.

And all the mothers and the grandmothers and the daughters and the granddaughters and the sons and the grandsons and the husbands in my life felt genuinely happy and grateful and loved on Sunday which rules.

Because you know what? You're just a day, same as the others and for that, I thank you. See you next year, Mother's Day. And tell Valentine's Day I said what's up.

xoxo,

GGC