****This Post will briefly mention children**** I think I work pretty hard. I work full-time, I write full-time. I'm a wife full-time (well, I'm not seeing anyone else), and I'm a mother full-time. So twice a year, my birthday and the Saturday after Mother's Day, I'm entitled (according to me) to turn into a lump. Think of a lump of sugar or a lump of coal. That's me: No getting dressed. No hair up. No skin-tightening make-up. No bra... let the gravity chips fall where they may. I'm Jabba the Hutt. I'm Patrick Starfish. Those who choose to look at me just have to deal with it. And since those are only two days out of an entire year, I'm not dumb enough to only take those two measly days. I turn each of my two days into a full weekend extravaganza. I warn my kids all week: "Okay, I'll get up and get those cheese crackers for you now, but come Saturday, kindly direct all comments, complaints and requests to that man over there." And of course, "that man over there" is my lovely husband who has his "I think I'll go out for a pack of cigarettes even though I don't smoke and come back on Monday" face on.
When your kids are seven, this is what "mother's milk" is: Mother milking her days off. If it's something I really enjoy like strawberry picking with them, I'll participate. But no fairs where we stand under a hot tent for an hour while they meticulously arrange paper, glitter, and a popsicle stick. (And if there were any solidarity among women, they wouldn't have glitter anyway. Every man can tell his wife: "What do you mean 'where'd that glitter on me come from?' Don't you remember that stupid fair last month? I have no idea how it got in my chest hair and my belly button. You know how glitter is.")
And no bouncy houses unless I'm allowed in there. And during these days, bouncing in a bouncy house takes on a whole different sinister shape... see my earlier "no bra" comment. Small children could be scarred for life... emotionally and physically.
I celebrate Mother's Day on Mother's Day- bring on my gifts, cards, flowers and cake but the next weekend is "Lori's Day". I have no interest in spending my special day of relaxation competing for a table at the pancake house or a hundred other places with every other mother out there.
For the most part, I will be spending Lori's Day in bed letting gravity take its toll. You may approach the bed only to bring me approved snacks. Let's start with ice cream and work from there. You may bring in the ice cream and then return ten minutes later to return the remainder to the freezer. (Who am I kidding?) TV will be whatever I say it is. No Sam and Cat. Probably no SpongeBob. Sports, sports and more sports. Turner Classic Movies and free-flowing US and People magazines in and out all day long. Murder She Wrote marathon. (Shut up who asked your opinion?) But only if they're the old episodes before she moved to NYC. The charming, tranquil town of Cabot Cove counter-balances all of the sugar and caffeine that I'm downing.
And I fully intend to continue this ritual well into my children's adult years. The rules will stay more or less the same with a few updates: "You are not to approach mommy on these days unless you have become a professional massage therapist or manicurist..." Or probably by that time... plastic surgeon.