Chronicles of Chaos
The Mother’s Day Skirt
I have a problem with Mother’s Day. A big part of me wants to spend it alone. Sleeping, reading, taking a long walk and then watching TV.
This Mother’s Day we’re driving an hour plus to meet my parents and grandma for brunch at a fancy restaurant. I like the idea of the intergenerational family celebration. It will be nice to see everyone and the kids are thrilled. I do wish that someone else was responsible for printing directions, packing the snacks, dressing the kids up, not forgetting the mother’s day presents and providing in-car entertainment.
The day starts ominously with a poop.
I lie in bed listening to Michael negotiate with Oliver for fifteen minutes. MOMMY CHANGE ME! He’s refusing to get out of bed. My throat is sore and my head heavy. I’ve been fighting a cold for four days and mornings are the worst. Michael manages to deliver Oliver to my bedside. Oliver stares at me, “Mommy Get Up!”
The kids and Michael give me breakfast, home made cards and roses cut from the garden. They’re excited and sweet and it’s really all that I want.
And then it’s time to get ready.
We have no brunch clothes. Actually, Michael does, but I’m not responsible for dressing him.
Wyatt’s set on wearing a pair of plaid shorts I bought him at the Gap the other day in a size too small. I’m fine with the shorts, it’s the T-shirt that needs sprucing. After he rejects a series of sweaters that didn’t match anyway, I find a crumpled hand me down button down shirt.
The shirt appears and is a bit tight. Wyatt, however, is intrigued. He carefully buttons all the buttons himself, once he reaches the top (the very top) we’re done.
Amelia’s already wearing a dress (thank god she has the one) and only requires ten minutes to lure her into a sweater since it’s chilly outside.
Oliver wants to wear his PJs, an everyday desire of his that he foists upon us whenever we want to leave the house. My usual compromise, pants and PJ top, sometimes with a short sleeve T over, feels perhaps too casual for our California inspired French cuisine restaurant.
I pull out a box of hand me downs and hope there’s something dressy inside that I can convince him to wear. I’m overjoyed at the sight of a collared polo shirt, Oliver is excited about an aqua turtleneck sweater with a black stripe down the arms.
I get the shirt on by telling him he can wear the sweater over, which he does. The closest match for bottoms is a pair of plaid shorts, so we go with it. They’re sort of linen-y.
By the time Michael walks down the stairs dressed, I’ve got 15 minutes to shower and get myself ready. Oliver accompanies me because of course it will be easier that way.
He rolls around on the bed while I leave my three minute shower in search of closet miracles. I find an eight year old long beige skirt, perfectly neutral for family brunch–and it fits.
When I reappear in the bedroom, Oliver bursts into tears. He’s horrified by the sight of me in the skirt. He cries, “Mommy NO. Take it OFF!”
He picks up my sweatpants and T-shirt crumpled on the floor and pushes them at me. He sobs, “Wear This Mommy.”
I realize he’s seen me in sweatpants and jeans his entire two year old life. A long skirt is quite a shock. I’m in the middle of a stay at home mom complex when Michael arrives.
By that time, I’m showing Oliver a three year old skirt from the back of the closet, “What about this skirt?”
Oliver presses the T-shirt into my leg, “No, ‘Dis.”
Michael bends down next to Oliver, who eyes him suspiciously. In a calm voice Michael offers, “Let’s get special snack for the car.”
Oliver hesitates, sucks in a huge breath of air, then holds out his arms in surrender for a pick up, “Ok Daddy. ‘Eshal ‘Nack.”
As Michael disappears to the stairs, he says, “Just wear the skirt.”
Five minutes later, or maybe ten, we’re in the car en route. We get to brunch on time, sit outside near a lawn where the kids can run forever, and my parents provide books, pens, bouncy balls and singing Hallmark cards.
As we drive home, Amelia announces, “Mom, that was the best mother’s day ever!” Wyatt agrees. They’re both delighted.
I feel a rush of agreement–and happiness, to know they’re having such a good time. When we get home, Michael and I do the weekend trade, he goes for a bike ride, and then I take my walk. I come home in time to kiss the kids goodnight.
I realize Mother’s Day is a celebration of family, the highs and lows and in betweens. It’s another day of real life, with the opportunity to stand back a little, to watch and appreciate.
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