The Mother of All Holidays

Mother's Day was notoriously created by a greeting card company, which shall go unnamed here. Even though we all know damn well who it is. It's the same company who invented Valentine's Day and Crocs. Brain-washed us just enough to buy a bit of nonsense, again and again, year after year. When I was a kid we were required to read The Emporer's New Clothes, which seemed to temper gullibility a bit, at least in most of us. If you haven't read it already, you should. It will make you feel like a really, really big asshole for buying into most of the bullshit that swirling around us these days. You're wearing Crocs right now, aren't you?

Anyway, the original notion of Mother's Day was to buy your mom a greeting card (see above) and some candy or flowers to thank her for all that she's done for you (i.e. washing your face with spit) throughout the year. Of course, the main motivation of this depends on your age. When you're seven, you perceive your mom to be the greatest person in the world. Fortunately for you (and unfortunately for the greeting card company), you can get away with making her a card and planting a kiss on her cheek. As you get older, however, expectations and therefore the guilt quotient goes up exponentially. Forget the mere card and flowers; that card better contain a kick-ass spa certificate, or if you really know what's good for you, jewelry, and I don't mean the home-made kind. We're talking diamonds. A tennis bracelet. An heirloom pin. And the most valued gift of all...your precious time.

When I was growing up, it was just me, my brother and sister, our parents, and my dad's folks. This made special occassions very easy on us. My grandparents came over to our house. My mom fixed a meal. Everyone was happy. That all changed once my parents got divorced and I got married. Then, we were required to make an appearance at my mom's, my dad's, and my in-law's, all on the same day. In addition to just showing up, I had to look genuinely happy to be there and, also, hungry. My husband and I were forced to eat three sit-down meals in one day just so we didn't hurt anyone's feelings. Nevermind the impacted colon.

Many years later, my mother and grandparents passed away. Since my parents were divorced and not on speaking terms, that had prevented mine and my husband's families from celebrating holidays together. Now that my mom and the looming threat of Word War III were out of the picture, we had the opportunity to joyously unite our families in celebration! Spending every holiday in peaceful harmony! No more tension headaches from guilt and worry! No more stomache-aches from stress and over-eating! We would simply all convene in one place, at one time and celebrate together. This worked beautifully for a while...

It was good. It was too good. Not enough drama. Not enough turmoil. Too many people in one place, at one time, for too long. It was too good to be true. It was too good to be true because it was bad. Resentment reared its ugly head.

"Why do we have to spend every holiday with her family?" my sister-in-law posed the question to my husband in private, but of course, he ratted her out later. Blood does not run thicker than alcohol and two children. "I want to spend Mother's Day with Mom, not your wife's entire family. Can't you and I take Mom to brunch? Just you and me? We're her kids, afterall." Yes, she and my husband are my mother-in-law's kids, though they are both in their late thirties and way, way to big to fit in her lap. "I mean," my sister-in-law continued, "she doesn't even have a mother anymore, so why should she care?"

Yes, my mother is dead; she is correct. To her credit, I genuinely appreciate the occasional reminder so that I do not embarrass myself by attempting to call my now dead mother out of the blue to get her recipe for swedish meatballs that died with her, leaving me shit-out-of-luck standing in the kitchen with my husband's boss pounding his dinnerware on the kitchen table, while holding my husband at gunpoint. However, I am also a mother myself, to her niece and nephew, who are, um, her brother's children. Shouldn't I factor somewhere in the equation?

My family, on the other hand, will show up anywhere, any time, any place as long as there is food. They may be an hour late, but they'll show up. I actually had to tell my dad last year that my husband's family no longer wanted to celebrate holidays with my family. "Oh, I see, " he said. I could tell he was hurt, but he is too classy to say anything unkind. Because we were all split apart, he did not get to see his grandchildren or his son-in-law on Father's Day last year. I didn't get to see my father-in-law, either. Or my husband, for that matter.

Surprisingly, I understand my sister-in-law's motivation. She is divorced and has no children. She is clinging very tightly to her parents. I, for this reason, am willing to step aside. I have a husband and two children who stand beside me, regardless of who else shows up. However, as a mother, I want to spend Mother's Day with my children. I would like to spend time with my mother-in-law and stepmother, as well. Because my husband's family isn't willing to celebrate the occasion jointly, this probably will not happen. We all live far enough apart to make two stops in one day too much for my two young children.

When anyone asks me what I want for Mother's Day, I used to jokingly say I want to be hit over the head and locked in the closet. I am not joking any more...that actually sounds quite appealing. Maybe if I ask nicely, my sister-in-law will take me up on it.

Razor Sharp Twit

I walked up to the counter at a fast-food restaurant at the mall. As I was perusing my options, the guy behind the counter said, "can I help you, ma'am?" I responded, "yes, I'd like to get an, um..." He quickly retorted, "ma'am, I'm sorry! We don't serve 'um' here!!" "Ha!" I gasped, purely out of pity and to keep myself from groaning out loud. After placing my order and handing the cashier my money, another customer approached the counter. "How can I help you today, ma'am?" the fast-food artist asked the woman. She replied, "I'd like an, um..." As the words barely escaped her mouth, the employee blurted out, "ma'am, I'm sorry! We don't serve 'um' here!!" I could feel the heat coming off of the cashier beside him. In mere nanoseconds I could sense the poor poor girl's suffering, having to listen this idiot repeat the same phrase, or joke as he probably refers to it, hundreds upon hundreds of times day after day after day. She collected my money as she gingerly fingered a plastic knife in her other hand.