Happy Mother’s Day, you mamas out there. Here’s a little something I wrote about what I really want for Mother’s Day, for Elizabeth Street…
I am writing this with a drowsy 3-year-old on my lap. He has woken up disoriented and cuddly in the dim pre-morning light of my writing time. His tousled hair is sweaty from sleep, and he smells clean from last night’s bubble bath. There is a freckle on his squishy cheek—perfect for the big mama smooches he still allows without wriggling away. It’s true what they say: There is no love as huge and all-encompassing, as stupid and as fearless and as transforming, as the way you love your children.
That said, I really wanted him to sleep another goddamned hour this morning.
Because, I’m trying to think about what I want for Mother’s Day. And this entails having a recess from the daily work of mothering. Every year around this time, there is a lot of chatter about Mother’s Day that include flowers (nice!), jewelry (for mothers whose kids have outgrown the yanking-at-everything-shiny stage, I presume), and family brunches (for mothers who aren’t constantly with their families, I presume). And, every year, I think, Wow, those things are not what I want. Here’s my list of coveted gifts I’d like for Mother’s Day: Sorry to make you click but just do it.