Momservation: The day after Mother’s Day is like a hangover. It was a great party, but now back to the real world.
☺ ☺ ☺
It was glorious.
I got to sleep in. Someone else fed and walked the dog. I didn’t have to take breakfast orders or nag anyone to clean their room.
No one asked me to drive them anywhere. A cease fire had been declared between siblings. My husband was doing the dishes.
I excused myself from a four-course breakfast without a care of who was clearing the table or loading the dishwasher. No one fought about it while I retired to the living room couch, given complete control over the television remote.
No one asked me what I wanted to do that day—I was in charge of nothing except my own happiness.
Hubby took me to a River Cats game with front row seats behind the plate, access to free food in the hospitality suite, and I believe, somehow arranged for my beer and chocolate malt calories to not be admissible.
When I got home my teenagers had done their own laundry for school the next day and no one asked me what was for dinner. I was left alone to binge-watch Parks and Recreation until I was called to a simple yet delicious dinner that I did not have to cook nor clean up after.
The spectacular day finished with lovingly selected cards singing my praises and a group selfie so I would have proof that such an amazing day could exist.
Because the next morning it was all a blur as the pounding headache of reality hit.
There were no spoons because the dishwasher needed to be ran, my daughter forgot to wash her favorite shorts, the dog was trying to eat lunches off the counter, I forgot to submit the school newsletter update, my freelance column was overdue, we had no fruit for lunches, kids couldn’t find PE clothes, kids were fighting over the bathroom, my email box was full but I wouldn’t be able to get to it until lunch, my son needed money for something at school, I needed to get checks in the mail, I didn’t have tortillas for dinner, my husband wanted to know if I would be home for the roofers who were coming any minute as I rushed out the door for school drop-off yelling threats to my daughter not to be late again for carpool pick-up knowing I would again not succeed in trying to be five places at once.
Pass the Advil and water. Mother’s Day is officially over.