Okay. So I'm official. I've now survived my first Mother's Day and feel I can wear the "Mama" banner with pride. Not to worry: I wasn't smothered in kisses nor did I drown in the coffee brought to my bed or stuff myself into oblivion with pillow-side banana chocolate chip pancakes. Apparently, the hubs didn't get the memo about serving the new mom breakfast in bed. Not like every other dad in the universe. Yesterday, while C. slept soundlessly on the downstairs couch, I read Facebook status after Facebook status, all to the tune of: FRENCH TOAST!!! IN BED!!! I'M THE WORLD'S LUCKIEST MOMMY!!! BACON TOO!!!
I have to admit: I set myself up for failure. At 5 a.m. after the bird had been squawking and eating and squawking and eating for several hours, C. said, I'm gonna go sleep on the couch, and I was all (in my head): Sure you are, you're gonna go make pancakes and coffee and put a pink peony in a little tiny vase and I'm gonna say, you didn't have to and you're gonna say, Oh but I did, and then we're going to lay around all day and read the Times and Eva's going to take naps and maybe there will be a small piece of jewelery involved and maybe I'll get to yoga but mostly we'll just kiss and the house will clean itself, and Bacon, you'll say, Extra crispy!
Meanwhile, back on the planet Earth, my husband--who is (almost) always incredible, who I respect and admire and love more than anyone in the world--emerged from the couch cave at about 9:30 (an obscenely late hour in these parts!), scratching his belly and letting out a bear yawn. What's for breakfast? he asked. And then, even after he nuzzled me and made me dance with him in the kitchen and cooked me dinner and told me jokes and said I was the best mom in the world, I still pouted. And pouted. And pouted.
He says he can't read my mind. Looks like next year's memo will need to be in black & white. Anybody out there not get breakfast in bed?