I feel like Mother’s Day is an undervalued holiday on the whole, but especially so at my house because my birthday is the week before. By the time the bday festivities are over, my family doesn’t have time or money for Mother’s Day, and it crushes me year after year after year.
I don’t care about my birthday at all. What did I do to deserve it? Nothing. My mom went through hell to push me out of her hoo ha and there I was. It’s literally the laziest, most selfish thing I’ve ever taken credit for.
Mother’s Day, on the other hand, is special because it is earned through a lifetime of sacrifice and slavery. I grew these little brats IN MY BODY for the better part of a year, only to have my stomach cut open and my vagina mangled to get them out. I wipe shitty butts, clean snotty noses, and mop up puke for them on the regular. I endure sleepless nights, temper tantrums, and homework (theirs, not mine). I am in charge of feeding, clothing, cleaning, teaching, entertaining, and paying for two helpless little human beings every.single.day. I am literally responsible for giving them life, and for keeping them alive, and I am thanked for it exactly ONE FREAKING DAY a year. That one day is my life, man.
I expect to be waited on hand and foot on Mother’s Day. I want breakfast (okay, all meals) in bed. I want someone (besides me) to clean my house and deal with my kids. I want time to myself. I want 365 days of gratitude sung from mountain tops and expressed through interpretive dance.
I’d settle for a card, though. Like, just one card. That would be nice.