Mommie Dearest

Mothers Day. Oh, joy.

These were the exact words in my head as the day drew near.

It is hard to wait in joyful anticipation when the day is sure to remind me that there is very little tradition in my Mothers Day traditions.

The kids would be with Lars this year. I would not be served breakfast in bed and be presented with a corsage to wear to church. I would not get pampered and treated like royalty all day and then be taken to dinner. I would have to ask and be granted a short trip out with them. I usually pick brunch at a local place, but his year I'd choose dinner, so that I can look forward to it all day, and when it is over I only have a few hours to get through without the kids before going to bed. It is easier that way. I miss them less. Maybe.

It makes me sad and self conscious. What a winning hand!

And then there is my own mother, with whom I remain at war. I know there are people that would say I should be the bigger person and call her. But I won't. I did last year. But the wolf was always at the door, and at Christmas she bared her teeth. I am sure she is expecting a call. She better not have bet the house on it.

And while she has openly bashed me to anyone who will listen, (Charlotte however briefly, Joe, the few remaining friends who have not run screaming in the other direction, her idiot husband, and probably the mailman, the census taker, the mulch delivery person, the Jehovah's Witnesses who knocked on her door, and the guy they hired to power wash their roof) I have contained my open disdain for her to select audiences. Blog readers and Charlotte.

And so my children want to know what I have planned for Grandmomstella.

Nearly nothing.

I will not tell them that I would sooner eat a live pigeon than send a gift to Estelle. Any gift, great or small, would be critiqued and regifted. Probably back to me. And there is no Hallmark sentiment that can fully or truthfully express my Mothers Day feelings. There isn't a card that depicts a public stoning and reads, "Your unmitigated selfishness and lack of boundaries continues to amaze me even now. I have spent my entire adult life trying to make sense of your horrifying and confusing parenting style, and have only recently realized that you are a dangerously misguided kook who needs to be evaluated by a team of highly specialized psychiatrists. Happy Mothers Day."

So I ask the kids to work their kid magic and design a fabulous card of their own choosing. Cover it with flowers, and butterflies, and rainbows and ribbon-festooned packages. And then write their sweet adoring words in their sweet junior high penmanship. And I will enclose a picture of us at Hershey Park screaming down the last hill on the Wild Mouse, her favorite amusement park ride.

They sign. I don't. I seal the envelope, place the stamp and scrawl a return address with no name. Get it into the mail in plenty of time.

There is no message from me in the card.

And that is message enough.