Warning: This post is not for the weak of heart. Turn back now if you don't want to read my brutally honest, not-so-pretty feelings... the ones that I try like hell to hide or avoid thinking, because, after all, aren't we all supposed to be perfectly happy, joy-filled, squeaky clean Christians who always do the right thing? Don't say I didn't warn you. I will understand if you avoid me in the grocery line from now on.
I hate Mother's Day.
There is so much pressure to have the day be perfect:
"Don't fight today, it's Mother's Day, and we want it to be special for Mommy."
Trying to be something you aren't:
Besides, they can't hold out from arguing longer than breakfast anyway.
Even when I try not to have expectations, they are there,
hiding in the same part of my being where "magical childhood wishful thinking" remains.
For the record, I want to be a buff size 14 with a spotlessly clean house, all the nagging chores already completed so that I don't feel chained to the house so that in turn, I can feel free enough to leave this chore-filled prison and actually go out and enjoy such a beautiful day that God created.
All the handmade cards scribbled on colorful construction paper, with their misspelled words and drawn flowers are all so nice.
Really. They are.
But then the guilt I feel for not wanting to make a "Mother's Day Card Museum" of my house as I toss them into the trash a week later becomes a heavy burden.
Why can't today just be a plain ol normal day?
Fold the laundry.
Clean the bathrooms.
Wipe down the dining room table.
When you can relax and sit back and ignore the things Mom asks you to do.
Where you can roll your eyes and no one says anything.
The day you don't have to respect your Mother.
Because, after all
what does she think it is, Mother's Day?