Mother's Day needs to be re-branded. I'm not sure where along the line busting your vagina and watching your boobs deflate like deployed air bags became equated with a lopsided pot-holder and some half-wilted tulips, but we need a serious make-over pronto. You know who should get the job? Donald Trump. He would suggest something involving Mom being carried on a litter by twelve oiled men in gold loin cloths -- and I think we'd be moving in the right direction.
My suggestion? Mother's Day should start at midnight the night before. No, you might protest. I need my sleep. Um, actually, in my model, you don't. Because you have nothing to get up for. That's right, ladies, you are going to sleep, by yourself, until you are good and fucking done. However long it takes, no one is allowed to wake you up.
When you do finally rouse don't worry about trying to eat those brick-like pancakes the kids helped Dad make, or cleaning up the maple syrup river, because the house will be empty. And spotless. Your favorite foods will be waiting for you -- along with the newspapers or magazines of your choice. For you to read from start to finish. In one sitting!
From there it's just a short walk to the couch where your Sex and the City DVDs are cued up with a bag of marshmallows. Now, don't get too comfortable or you won't be able to answer the doorbell when the masseuse arrives. Or the takeout pizza.
Yes, ladies, in my vision the act of making people out of your person, who you have fed, clothed, and schlepped to the pediatrician and Tae Kwon Doe entitles you to one day a year where you do fuck all.
Probably by nightfall you may be feeling a little lonely. You may even find yourself wanting to referee a little hair-pulling and doll-stealing. You might miss the smell and weight of them as you slide them into bed. The sound of them muttering, "I love you," as their eyes flutter shut.
Then good, Leave Mom Alone Day, as I decree it shall henceforth be called, was a success. Spread the word.