All I want for Mother’s Day is…

Peace…

Quiet…

…and Salt and Vinegar potato chips.

A family size bag that I won’t have to share with anyone.

I’d like to start this Mother’s Day dreaming. None of those dreams where my son gets ran over by a car or the ones where my daughter runs off with a 54 year old Hell’s Angel. No, I only want flights that tickle my fancy. I shall frolic with meerkats, fly with a flock of phoenix over vast mountain ranges, snuggle polar bears, and ride the underside of a turtle. I want to garden with fairies, dance with Angels and duet with Josh Groban.

When I wake Mother’s Day morning I want to go straight to dozing. To feel the morning breeze on the hairs of my neck, the sunlight on the topside of my eyelids as the birds lull me in and out of an encore with Josh Groban.  Only after I’ve grown absolutely bored with the bed will I rise.

What I want for Mother’s Day is soul silence. A mom can never fully rest if her children are on her radar. I want my kids to get lost, or better yet, I want them to send me away. Order me to escape (did I say escape?) to a quaint bed and breakfast two counties over. I want to surround myself with Victorian Rose patterned wallpaper, oil paintings of English dog hunts, a four poster cherry wood bed, crisp white cotton bedding, crystal chandeliers and antique oak dressers. I want to lounge in an era when art, romance, and mystery were all the rage. Maybe I’ll write a letter on lace edged scented paper, or read poetry, or listen to my heart beat as the water pipes clank. Maybe I’ll nap.

But not until I’ve eaten a hearty breakfast because all I want for Mother’s Day is to remind myself that dining is more than a process. I want to forget the planning, shopping, cooking, serving, cleaning, leftovers, and dispensing. Food shall be a treat to savor; iridescent to my nose, flaky to the touch, pleasant to taste, light to the hip. I don’t want to think about nourishment, I want to experience it. Let breakfast be a sensual morning event again.

All I want for Mother’s Day is a free day.  Since I’m obviously incapable of being in my life without constantly thinking of all the things that need to be done. I need someone else to make Mother’s Day free of laundry, dog walks, turning off lights, picking up socks, wiping down counters, shutting doors, turning down the T.V., bringing up the computer, monitoring emails, and driving circles.

Don’t open my schedule, obliterate it.

Force me to wallow on a Victorian chaise before my open suitcase, confused as to how one dresses for nothing; spandex or sundress? Allow me to wander the skinny B&B hallways like a lost lamb, stumble into town, and lounge on a park bench. Force me to pace time by the speed of the passing clouds. I’d like to remember how it felt when I only had myself to entertain.

All I want for Mother’s Day is to remember who I am. For twelve years my children have been the majority of my days, my dreams, my thoughts, and my joy. I don’t want a diamond necklace, or an overpriced bouquet of flowers or a gut busting brunch. Don’t buy me any thing! Just refresh my memory of the woman I am: my own purpose, dreams, aspirations and feelings.  “Mother” is a relationship, a task, an experience, a responsibility but it’s certainly not my identity. It would be good for me, and my family to remember that.

I’m honored to be a mother… but I need a break.

And a family size bag of Salt and Vinegar potato chips.