Happy Mothers' Day

I could blog about how wonderful it is to be a mother and be all gushy and gooey eyed about it being my first Mothers' Day. But I'll leave that to family service advertorials, Hallmark cards, deluded parents or parents who have kids old enough to give them a little bit of a break. I shall blog about the reality that was today.

I have had no illusions about Mothers' Day. Perhaps, it would have been nice to be thanked and appreciated for the few hours of sleep that I put in, weight I've put on, six pack abs I've given up but that would be far too calculative. Plus, my kids are kinda young to understand that their Mommy needs to be loved too. As a child, I grew up in a family that didn't put all that big a premium on Mothers' Day. I think it was only when we were older that we started making a bigger deal about it, much to the chagrin of my cantankerous father.

So in a way, I didn't expect much. And I didn't think the kids would let me off all that easily just because it was a commercially declared day of celebration for mothers all over the world. And they didn't. It also didn't help that my all indispensable Aunty Daisy was off today and I'm still wrestling with stitches and add to that a headache that won't go away. The kids don't mean it but at the end of the day, I'm still wiped from having tried and failed to get Baby J to sleep, not once but twice (even though the second was a half hearted attempt while we wanted for Aunty D to finish cleaning up)and feeling a little bit blue. Baby J also doesn't let me forget that mothering is very obviously NOT a Hallmark card moment because she never fails to make me work for every ounce of her affection. The sun in my world rises when she smiles and stretches out for me and no matter how much I try not to take it personally, my heart quivers and sheds a tear for every time she turns away or struggles out of my hold for someone else to carry her and make her feel better. I constantly feel that I need to work harder to be at the top of her pecking order but it's not fair when I devote all my attention to her because she does have a very sweet and less demanding younger brother whom I love dearly as well. Evan's pecking order is pretty horizontal. Anyone can pretty much do the job with him and he's happy to flash his million watt grin at you.
But even then, chasing him, keeping up with him, bringing the both of them to the playground, feeding them both lunch and dinner and countless changes of clothes (it is THAT hot) and the diapering has left me drooping badly and stealing seconds to doze in the car on the way home from Grandma's.

It's led me to feel very dazed and not at all celebrated and not all that special. Between cleaning up puke, being shoved away a multitude of times and having dried pee, spit, porridge and whatever else on my clothes, I ask myself, what of this is worth celebrating? The fact that my children love me? Heck, I'm not even sure about that one.

Anyway, it's felt like any other Sunday or perhaps, that little bit worse because of all the hype that I, the romantic softy at heart and wish for, end up buying in to despite the brave, indifferent exterior.

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