The night before Mother's Day I am almost too excited to fall asleep. I use up all this excess energy barking orders at the men in my house that it needs to be clean for tomorrow. I must wake up to a clean house. Nevermind the damn breakfast. I'm all too happy to pass on the burnt toast or the cold rubbery eggs or the pancakes still raw in the middle. Just a decent cup of coffee and no dirty dishes in the sink, thank you. It's the least you can do after I eroded my pelvis squeezing you ingrates into the world.
Inevitably exhaustion takes over and I am able to go to bed. When I get up in the morning my house looks magical. The joy of stepping onto a clean floor! No crumbs or legos or mysterious sticky spots. My husband and children all chorus a "Happy Mother's Day!" at me and I spend some time basking in their love before I throw them out of my house. "I love you!" I call after them. "Now don't come home until supper!"
And then that's it. The rest of the day is mine to whatever I want, and what I want is mostly to pretend for a couple of hours that I am not a mother. I indulge in the things that are difficult for me to enjoy because I have kids like taking an uninterrupted, hot bath, painting my toenails or getting drunk in the afternoon. Because this is the day that is all about me and damnit, I deserve it. Because when you become a Mom you don't get holidays anymore. Easter, Halloween, Christmas and birthdays are all about the kids, overstimulated and high on sugar: us moms hardly ever get a break. This is the one holiday that is least likely to end with me crying hysterically on the floor praying for death.
I raise my tumbler of wine to all the Mommies, cheers! Milk this day for all it's worth.