Mother’s Day: like Valentine’s Day, only with even less caring

I’m supposed to care about Mother’s Day, aren’t I?  At the end of the day on Friday, all of my co-workers kept wishing me a happy first Mother’s Day.  Random friends have been asking how we are celebrating.  Even the Alias Father is beating himself up because he didn’t get me anything.

But I don’t care.  I’m not one for Hallmark holidays, or even my birthday.  I’m just not into the self-celebratory holidays.  It’s not my thing.

The day care sent home a little bookmark with the Buddha Baby’s painted thumbprints and the saying, “Thumbody Loves You!” (Boy, am I sorry I missed that craft project.)  I’m getting french toast for breakfast.  We might have a family hike later in the day.  And that’s about it.  And that’s plenty.

Maybe I’ll care later in life.  Maybe I’ll care when the Buddha is older and more difficult.  Maybe I’ll care when I feel more taken for granted every other day of the year.

But right now, every morning I walk into the nursery and get greeted by a big, drooly grin.  She clasps her fat little hands together and looks up at me with blue-eyed adoration and I feel sunshine fill my tired, uncaffeinated soul.

And that’s enough for me, every day of the year.