I woke up with the same sore throat I’ve had since Thursday. To be fair, it felt better than tiny incense sticks pricking me at each swallow.
The boys were watching cartoons while Lyndon set up the table with Wonder Bagels, balloons, and twin Sesame Street wrapped packages. Both dresses – both beautiful. Pink and red roses in bloom.
“Our rain barrels are full,” he said, giddy.
9:30. NyQuil is the best.
We had two ideas:
1. Walk to the Farmer’s Market to refill our bottle of chocolate milk
2. Trek into Manhattan for the final weekend of the Whitney Biennial
Both, we decided.
All the moms were at the park. All the kids. A dog jumped on me, leaving clear mud-prints on my new white pants. Sigh.
“You’re ambitious,” Margeaux said, adjusting my expectations when I told her about our Whitney plans.
Still committed, we brought the kids home, made everybody pee, made everybody a snack, made sure we had our (never-been-used) Whitney membership cards, made everybody buckle up and off we went.
The four year old fell immediately to sleep. Snoring.
“It’s fine,” I said.
“You could bring back one of your presents,” Lyndon offered.
And so, on this sunny & rainy Mother’s Day, I traded a mom dress for a MILF dress, grocery shopped alone, watched a four year old mop the floor, ate chocolate covered sugar with week-old wine, and sat down at my computer while Lyndon read bedtime stories.
Which is not a bad day.
Not a bad day at all.
Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms whose special day did not include white tablecloth brunches or harried trips to art museums. I think we won.