If Mother's Day is a day to honour mothers, why are mothers everywhere being duped by brunch plans? Sure, a mid-morning family meal sounds lovely, but in my five years celebrating Mother's Day as a mother myself, I've finally realised how backwards those brunch plans actually are. Don't get me wrong, I love brunch. But spending my single day of appreciation in 12 months at a restaurant with three little kids [1]?
Each of those should-be-glorious days has begun with me (despite my husband's eager attempts to take over such tasks) wrestling my kids to wear something [2] that doesn't look like it was picked out of the lost and found at school. Next, there's fighting them to leave the house early enough to make a reservation on time and then trying to keep them entertained in a seated position for two (plus) hours, stop them from spilling entire drinks on the floor, and ensure they actually eat the $14 eggs in front of them.
I also tried, usually without success, forcing them to smile for pictures [3] with me that they did not want to be taking. I ended each special day frustrated that I was actually just being subjected to a heightened version of my everyday in which my kids still acted like kids and I had no Instagram-worthy photos to show for it. I call bullsh*t.
This year, I'm taking back Mother's Day. This year, the national holiday that is meant to celebrate mothers is, as a mother, my day, and I plan to spend it how I please.
Which means I've made a spa appointment for a late morning time slot. I'll have plenty of wiggle room for a prompt arrival even after I've spent an early morning in bed, eating breakfast "cooked" by my children while reading their cute scribbled cards (traditions I can get behind). I will then, at my leisure, get out of bed and get dressed and leave the house. By myself. At this point I do not care what my children are wearing for the day, or really, if they get dressed at all. Because this day is not about them.
At this point I do not care what my children are wearing for the day, or really, if they get dressed at all. Because this day is not about them.
I will sit alone in silence (or maybe with the five girlfriends who will be joining me after they hear about my brilliant plan) and sip cucumber-infused water while snacking on nuts and dried fruit. I may even hop in the steam room [5]. Who knows where the morning will take me, really? I will relish the luxury of my treatment of choice, and bask poolside in the afterglow of being pampered. I will order lunch and I will eat it slowly, tasting each bite that I so indulgently have time to enjoy. Maybe I'll flip open a magazine or pick up a book. Probably take a dip in the heated pool. Definitely take my time showering and drying my hair with a blow dryer.
The specifics don't matter much to me. Because I will be spending the day celebrating myself, without the little monsters who made me a mother (who I love SO much).
And if you think maybe I'm disappointing anyone who wanted to celebrate me on Mother's Day, think again. My husband was, in fact, thrilled when I shared my plans. Probably because my plans take the pressure off of him to orchestrate the impossible: a tantrum-free 12 hours that don't end with someone screaming or crying. Win-win.
And, surely, my own mother, mother-in-law, grandmother, and all of the other mother figures in my life with whom I usually share a Mother's Day meal will understand, and probably even appreciate, why I've opted out of brunch this year — because they wish they'd opted out of brunch years ago, too.