Happy Mothers' Day. Or, Happy Sunday in May. Or, Happy Hey-mom-here's-a-card Day. It's pretty much just like every other day, just with talk about the wonders of mothering.
What do I want for Mothers' Day? The ironic element to this question is that the very things that make me a mother makes it almost impossible to have what I want.
The cessation of any and all demands on my person, whatever their form.
The suspension of all societal expectations, both internal and external, placed on me by the patriarchy because of my gender.
Shoes. These shoes. Size 11.
For a certain right-wing pundit to lose his last marble and fly off on a paranoid tangent so random and hateful that, once and for all, the only thing anyone, anywhere will ever do, ever again, is laugh at him.
I'd like to garden until I feel like having and Orange Blossom Ale and then write for awhile. I would like few isolated and only-lovely moments with my beautiful son, during which he rest his curly head on my shoulder and gazes lovingly into my eyes while patting me gently and saying "Mama, home."
An iPhone without AT&T.*
So far today, I've had eggs and a shower. I changed the sheets and went to the store to buy meat.
The fact of the matter is that most mothers--hell, most women--can't take a day to do whatever they want or do nothing because nothing will get done and all that something will be there the next day when there is even less time to do it.
So thanks, America, for the card and the poem about motherhood that you Googled this morning. I'll settle for a Guinness until I get a society where women can do more than vote and get paid 1/3 less than a man for the same job.
*I would like to do/have all of these things in a completely clean house, which I did not clean myself.