“Mommy, can we go to Chuck E. Cheese’s for Mother’s Day?” said my 7-year-old from the merry-go-round.
“Aw. That’s very thoughtful.” I said.
“Spin me faster!”
It was hard to spin him with one hand and text my husband, if u take me to Chuck E. Cheese on Mother’s Day I’ll throw myself into oncoming traffic with the other, but I made it work.
It’s no secret that I’m never going to win mother of the year, so I’m going to go ahead and say this:
(((((((((((I HATE MOTHER’S DAY!)))))))))))
This so-called “holiday” is a crock of shit wrapped in torn tissue paper and stuffed in a hand-me-down gift bag.
For starters, let’s look at the word holiday. Webster’s defines it as “A day of festivity or recreation when no work is done,” which is fucking hilarious, because anyone who is an actual mother will tell you that Mother’s Day is one of the most labor intensive days of the year.
A typical “celebration” consists of brunch at some overpriced flu factory, where a group of overly hungry family members sit around a crowded table, pretending to be interested in the minutiae of each other’s lives, all the while daydreaming of the time when we can get home, peel off our spanks, and fart where no one can hear it. Plus, I never comprehend half of what anyone is saying because I’m busy trying to get my kid to stop crawling under the table and stepping on my hardly worn pumps (which I got on sale, thankyouverymuch) using my inside voice, not my usual “God, I hope I closed the windows so the neighbors can’t hear me” screech.
Then there are the gifts, which are made in school assigned by teachers who hate us mothers for all the pesky emails, unwashed children, and lack of gratitude. Last year, I got a heart-shaped keychain made of clay that came pre-broken, which I found three weeks after the holiday at the bottom of my child’s backpack. The year before that I got a milk carton full of dirt, which (allegedly) had a sunflower seed in it, because all moms need another thing to feed and water.
And please, partners, spouses, husbands, baby daddies, accidental sperm donors, and step whatevers of the world, do not take this as a sign to go bigger and throw us a party instead of going out to “celebrate.”
Parties are not fun for mothers.
A party is just another reason for us moms to feel like shit about ourselves. You see, a party means we have to, have to, clean the house, because people are coming over, meaning you’ll find us on our hands and knees scrubbing the bathtub with a toothbrush and some bleach on the off chance that some asshole pulls back the shower curtain to find a bead of mold and a gang of stray pubic hairs staging a Broadway musical in the corner.
Parties also mean we have to plan food, make food, clean up food, and soon wish everyone would get the hell out of our house because we stress-ate 11 deviled eggs and only have one (very clean) bathroom.
No other holiday makes the namesake do any actual work. Jesus totally ghosted everyone on Easter, fat Santa is done with his work and sipping on peppermint schnapps with his hand down his pants by Christmas Day, and don’t even get me started on Columbus!
I’m going to tell you what all of us mothers REALLY want for Mother’s Day, so lean in:
We want to be left ALONE!
Queremos estar SOLOS!
我们想一个人呆着 !
It’s true of every woman in every culture that the best gift you can give us is to skip the handmade trifles, leave the jewelry in the store, ditch the flowers and the restaurants, and give us an entire day to sit in a hot bath with good wifi so we can binge-watch Orange Is the New Black, eat Oreos by the sleeve without having to answer one question, make any food, or hold back any gas.
So, yeah kid, you can go to Chuck E. Cheese’s this year on Mother’s Day, but I’m not coming with you. I’ll be celebrating with a bathroom full of lesbian prisoners and a self-fueled jacuzzi full of crumbs.
(This mom’s lament originally ran on Pryvate Parts)
About the author: Lisa Shaw is not afraid to show her Pryvate Parts to anyone. She believes that no-bullshit truth-telling is the secret to happiness. She’s a parent through transracial adoption and dreams of inventing the perfect pair of underwear someday–the kind that never needs washing and stays out of her crack. If you want to feel a whole lot better about yourself, you can check out her antics at ScaryMommy, Huffington Post, Blunt Moms, and Love What Matters, or follow her on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.
