Mother’s Day last year was a bummer. No – let me put it another way. It was the worst Mother’s Day ever. No homemade cards, no flowers, no breakfast in bed. Oh wait, there was breakfast in bed, after I said something like, “What happened to my breakfast in bed?” Then 12 brings up a plate of strawberries, coffee with cream and sugar and an apple blossom sprig on a cookie tray. It was very sweet.
But. It. Was. Too. Late.
And — she tried to con me.
Don’t. Con. Me. On. Mother’s Day.
To top it off. Nobody wanted to come to church with me for the May crowning of Mary. Wouldn’t that be sweet? It should’ve been.
But it wasn’t. I actually got in the car, backed out of the driveway …and pulled back in the driveway after a picture popped in my head — I was sitting in a pew in church. Alone. On Mother’s Day.
I pulled back in the driveway.
I felt really bad. For me.
I didn’t even get a cake. Or pie. Or whatever light and sweet thing thing they make you eat for Mother’s Day (something lemon. It’s always something lemon).
So forgive me, TV commercials, Target ads, Internet and Facebook ads, if I scoff at your “things to get for Mom on Mother’s Day.”
F—you.
I don’t want perfume. Or a gardenia-scented candle. Or a pink scarf. Or gourmet chocolates shaped like gardenias.
I’ll take a box of wine. And some alone time.
I can buy it myself.
And you can go off on your merry way. No church. No breakfast in bed. The kids won’t have to lift a finger.
But I will.
Guess which one?
Sorry. I’m still mad.
Hang On Mom 