If you happen to be a regular reader of my NQM’s posts, you may have picked up that I am a planner. I tend to take careful notes of reoccurring events and find ways to make them both more enjoyable and more efficient. This year, however, I decided I was going to take an uncharacteristically laid-back approach to celebrating Mother’s Day. We’d just come off of hosting Easter festivities, an offsite for my husband’s work team, and a Derby party, and I was feeling pretty worn out. So, my Mother’s Day request was that I did not want to plan, clean, or cook—basically, a vacation from my everyday life. Oh, and I wanted a dinner bell to hang on the deck; I know, how Little House on the Prairie of me, but my family can often be found running wild all over our property when dinner time hits.
Here’s how it all worked out…
2 Days Before Mother’s Day
Husband: So, I thought for Mother’s Day I’d make breakfast for everyone.
Me: Okay, what are you planning to make?
Me: Hmm…Have you ever seen me eat a pancake?
Me: Maybe we should just go out to brunch. How about the somewhere with a patio? At noon?
The planning begins….
Mother’s Day Morning
6:30 AM: 3-year old daughter makes an appearance in our room, loudly declaring “Happy Mother’s Day,” then snuggling up and falling asleep for another hour. LOVE.
7:30 AM: Husband wakes up with kiddos, make them breakfast, watches cartoons. Mom sleeps in. Halleluiah!
9 am: I emerge from the bedroom refreshed as a daisy. Kiss the kids, pour myself a coffee, and head to the deck for some alfresco reading and relaxing. My 6-year old soon joins me to read his current favorite series. Perfection.
10:30 am: A bell rings in the distance, slowly parading its way to the deck. Next, I am presented with a bell that is no smaller in size than the liberty bell itself.
Me: Nice. Do you think we’ll be able to hang it from the side of the deck?
Husband: No, probably not. I think I’ll need to build a post on the deck to support it.
A+ for the theatrics. Note to self for next year, to avoid disappointment, be specific.
Noon. On the deck. You can find me at the Country Club. Bottle full of Bub (okay maybe just a glass with grapefruit juice). And for those of you gagging on the pretentiousness, said rural country club uses local sheep as “lawn control,” has membership criteria based on if you’ll pay the nominal monthly fee and the price of a beer can be counted on one hand. But, the Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate. (Sorry, couldn’t resist the opportunity to work in more song lyrics.) Back to brunch… We are treated to a lovely buffet of salmon, prime rib, rice pilaf, and salad. Yum. But wait, there’s a 3 and 6-year old in the mix who aren’t having a single bit of it other than a few stray grapes and cucumbers.
Note for next year: Choose brunch spot with kid-friendly menu. I am only willing to engage in food battles 364 days of the year.
After making the rounds distributing Grandma gifts and well wishes, we swung by a garden-focused estate sale and picked up some gems, including a vintage flower frog and a Sussex Flower Trug, both for a song! I bet Meghan thought she was the only American gal to snag a Sussex. No Ma’am. Then we headed home and I planted tomatoes and worked in the garden. There is something so fitting about gardening on Mother’s Day. I’d guess it’s the emergence of warm spring days and new life breathing its way into the world.
Meanwhile my husband did a load of laundry and made dinner: two things that fall almost entirely on me the rest of the year. There were a few hiccups, namely him forgetting to incorporate any side dishes (just grilled chicken), but I think it might have given him a little appreciation for the work that goes into getting family dinner on the table, and clean clothes in the drawer.
Overall it was a wonderful day. I think my attempts at laid-back, joie de vivre proved themselves to be a bit laughable to all involved. But I tried, and so did my family. And I love them, and they made me feel extra loved too. That’s really all you need for a perfect Mother’s Day.
Feature Photo by Marla Smith
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