I believe I have the right to pout. Mother’s Day was a week and a half ago. I got nothing.
I bust my ass every day to get these girls bathed, fed, entertained and adequate sleep. It is my full time job. I am not guaranteed one second to myself at any point in the day. I make sure they get to the dentist, the doctor. I have been pooped on. Spit up on. Thrown up on. Broken up fights. I’ve had my own breastmilk barfed right into my mouth while playing with Kate. I’ve dealt with fevers, colds, the flu, a broken leg, I’ve performed the heimlich. I keep up with the washing and organizing and sanitizing of everything in this house.
You know what.
I’m going to stop here. I don’t think any men read my blog. And most of the people that do are moms and we all know what it’s like. Working outside of the home or at home – moms don’t get a break. Even away from your kids, you’re still thinking about their wellness.
My mom gave me a late present after she heard Scott gave me nothing. My mother-in-law gave me a present too. Although nice and appreciated, I am not their mothers.
My mom told Emma to tell me Happy Mother’s Day that day. And that is all I got. I’m not the type of person that wants presents. I never expect anything on Valentine’s Day. I don’t expect gifts or even a card on our anniversary. But Mother’s Day. Come on.
Since our kids are too young to really appreciate what Mother’s Day really is they need a little help. A simple drawing from them would make my day. Get out the paint and put their handprints on a piece of paper, even newspaper, I don’t care. An E-card from Hallmark. Something. Anything. “Thank you for being the mom to my children.” That would work too.
I will never forget, Scott.