Mother’s Day.

Now hear me on this: I’m not complaining. It’s just that I’m not sure we really DO get an entire day off of doing stuff.

Don’t get me wrong–I’m appreciative of all Jason did to make the weekend special. I spent some time with a friend, got a pedicure, wrote a bit.

He did a whole bunch o’ laundry. Mulched in the front yard. Hung with the crew.

I need to rattle all of this off so he doesn’t come home from the office today and give me an earful about how I make him sound so bad.

My comment of truly not getting a day off is not for lack of my husband trying to make it so.

It started out OK. Jason and the kids brought me an omelet and coffee in bed along with the Sunday paper.

But soon after, all hail broke loose.

Jason is having a rough go with allergy season and truthfully, didn’t feel so hot. He went back to bed after said delivery of breakfast.

Children were directed downstairs.

During the next 20 minutes, our bedroom door was opened at least ten times. That’s every two minutes for all you math-challenged peeps like me.

I could read roughly two paragraphs of a story in the paper before the next mama-needing drama cropped up again.

Clearly, my kids didn’t get the memo that Mother’s Day isn’t all about giving mom gifts.

It’s more about agreeing to stop bickering for just one day of the year because I’m only asking for one day here. Really.

And I’m also asking they throw-in not pouting and pushing-back on what I ask them to do as well.

It’s possible that while we were getting ready for church (!) I might have told them I was just asking for one freaking day. Just one day where we live in peace and I don’t have to don a referee shirt. I’m tired of the black and white stripes. I wanted to wear something cute.

I also might have added, “If you open the door to this bedroom during the next 20 minutes while I’m showering, you better be on fire, bleeding, or vomiting.”

Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy Dearest. June Cleaver I was not.

So later in the day, when I received this note from Sarah, my heart fell to the floor:

Sarah's letter

Because in all of those sweet words, you know what I saw first?

“She is ass.”

“Oh, no,” I thought. “She must have heard me say it and now she’s going to start using it.”

I was then reminded of a former second grader I once taught. When I called his mother after several incidences of profanity on the playground, without skipping a beat she said “Well, we do talk like that at home.” At first, I was astounded but then I loved her for her complete honesty and refusal to pass the buck.

We have become that family.

Sarah is a lefty and handwriting has been a struggle for her. It’s improved drastically but we’re still working on spacing.

After a I was able to breathe, I realized it actually said “She is as sweet as honey” but the “as” and “sweet” were awfully close together.

But here’s the thing: if she had written “She is ass” she would have been right. I sorta behaved that way yesterday morning. I rightly deserved it.

I reread her letter and while it didn’t say what I thought it did, I apologized for my crankiness. On Mother’s Day, of all days.

Because the reality is, sometimes I AM an ass. But as I’ve said here before, it’s what we do after our moments of behaving as such that matters.

I’m just thankful she won’t be using this word in front of her teacher today.

How was your Mother’s Day? Did you get a day off? Bwahahahahahahaha….





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