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There are high expectations on Mother’s Day. It’s the one day of the year I am supposed to be honored for renting out my uterus for nine months in exchange for stretch marks and sleepless nights. Facebook and advertising agencies can be blamed for the hype. Everybody knows the woman who is “hashtag blessed” because her perfect family took her to brunch. Don’t even get me started on the commercials. In one spot, mom is relaxing on her new patio furniture. In another, she is wearing relaxed-fit, high-rise capri pants, a cardigan, and smiling ear to ear. The kids are playing together and willingly sharing toys. She sits at the kitchen table sipping a hot cup of coffee when her husband surprises her with a piece of jewelry designed by Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. A Michael Bolton song plays in the background while the entire family embraces.
This is how last Mother’s Day unfolded for ME: My children — who, on a school day, have to be dragged out of bed like a Kardashian from a plastic surgeon’s office — were awake before the rooster crowed. They offered to cook breakfast and while that is a sweet gesture, I had no desire to clean grease from the ceiling. So, we had Dunkin’ Donuts and sandwiches from chef Ronald McDonald. I received a pair of fabulous shoes and an espresso machine from my baby daddy. My daughter gave me a beautiful card and seeds she planted in a plastic container. “We need to water the plant,” I said a few hours after she presented it to me. My daughter took a deep breath and replied, “But I gave it to you. It’s yours now.” My son drew a picture of me with a bad haircut and four fingers. I looked like Jim Carey’s character in the movie “Dumb and Dumber” if he lost a few digits in a lawn mower accident. He redeemed himself with this beautiful note: “I love my grandma, dad, brother, sister and grandpa. But, I love my mom the most. This is my mom, the most beautiful, wonderful and special woman in the world.” Homemade gifts are truly my favorite.
Yet, the only other thing I really wanted was an hour to run on the treadmill — uninterrupted. My workouts are usually stopped with requests for snacks or a child tattling on another. I have even read my daughter books while running. My wish was granted. I was 10 minutes into my workout, moving at a rapid pace with an Ace of Base song blasting from my iPod, when I learned the value of the saying “Be careful what you wish for.” I don’t know exactly what went wrong, but somehow my foot slipped and I lost my balance. I tried grabbing the bar on the treadmill, clawed at the wall, but was unable to recover. My treadmill is positioned near the wall with a very small path between it and my bed. I landed on my side and was thrown against the wall as the conveyer belt continued turning at clip of 5.8. I was stuck as it chafed the skin off my body (I’ll spare you the “after” photo details). I screamed, but at first nobody came. Perhaps, from the other side of the door, it sounded as if I was singing along to a Guns N’ Roses song. Plus, I had asked to be left alone … .
It took three or four cries for help before my son slowly opened the door. He pulled the safety cord and stopped the torture. He helped me up and said, “I love you, Mom.” And with those three words, I got exactly what I needed for Mother’s Day.
DEANNA KING has been writing her “The Cynical Mother” blog for years and now it will be in print for all parents who need a laugh and need to know they are not alone in the big scary world of parenting. You can hear Deanna each morning as funny female sidekick to Brother Wease on 95.1 The Brew and also yelling at her three children (just kidding), who range in age from 6 to 16.
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