Mother's Day is coming to an end, and I sit here in a state of bliss. I told Mike I didn't want him to buy anything for me this year. I saw him shudder; he knows what that means. It means I want nothing but time and the permission to do the opposite of mothering: to loll about and be selfish. I'm pretty sure he'd rather buy me something ridiculously expensive and call it a day, but after nearly 12 years of marriage and 6 years of Mother's Days under his belt he knows better. And so there were no presents of the unwrappable sort. Instead my gifts looked like this:
Waking up at 8:30 and rolling over to find the laptop in the space where my husband normally sleeps. Getting showered with homemade gifts and little notes from Elena. Homemade cinnamon rolls, coffee, and the Sunday paper to read at my leisure. Finishing my coffee in bed with the laptop. Chinese food for lunch. More reading and an afternoon nap (lolling about is very taxing). Dinner with my parents. Coming home to a clean house. Having my daughter read Harry Potter to me. Tucking my children into their beds. Savoring a chocolate-covered caramel sprinkled with sea salt.
I haven't had a day this lazy and restful since, well, probably Mother's Day last year. I knew I was still a mother because from time to time I would feel pangs of guilt about all the things I could be doing. It's either motherhood or the remnants of my Catholic upbringing.
Tomorrow it's back to normal, and that's okay. My cup is full again. That, and it will probably take Mike a whole year to recover from being at my beck and call. Don't worry, babe. Father's Day is just around the corner.