Mother's Day for Single Mothers

My day started with my aunt leaving me a voicemail to wish me a Happy Mother's Day, and to play me a song that reminded her of my dead mother.

I poured myself a cold bowl of cereal.

I slept about three hours last night, due to my own child waking me up frequently, for unknown reasons. She began chattering away steadily at 6:30am, and continued non-stop for the next 14 hours.

"Look what I can do!"

I contemplated the idea of an Irish coffee, as it was an acceptable morning beverage, I needed to be awake, and I also needed to be drunk.

Grandma wanted to go to a museum for her day, so we headed off to see an impressionism exhibit, which my child wanted no part of. Since Grandma planned the trip right around lunchtime, I spent two hours lugging a whining, stomping, hungry 4-year old around a museum, and left with steam coming out of my ears. Then we sat down to a nice dinner, and by "nice", I mean "terse", and "left me wondering how long I would have to uncomfortably sit with my head in the oven before the fumes finally overtook me".

I really hope I get to spend the upcoming week hearing about the brunches and jewlery and days at the spa from all my married friends. That would be awesome.

Next year for Mother's Day, I would like an infectious disease, please. Something that would have me drugged up and isolated, with nothing but a TV and a remote to keep me company.

I'm going to go sit at my kitchen counter with a bottle of tequila and sing Chavela Vargas songs until I pass out.

I Guess I Could Tweeze a Little.

I am officially on vacation. For the entire week.

Except for a small meeting today with a client, but it was in the middle of the week, so I was officially well-rested. I had time to do laundry, apply large amounts of heat and product to my hair, put on makeup BEFORE I left the house and NOT while driving, and leave the house in a relaxed and timely fashion. It was crazy!

The meeting went very well, and afterwards, I stopped off at my daughter's daycare. Apparently, during my usual routine of work, parent, insonia, nap, work, parent, insomnia, nap, my appearance falls to a low position on the ol' priority list. There seems to be quite a noticeable disparity between my regular daily shlump attire, and my infrequently professional-looking self. I work from home. I'm not a morning person. Yoga pants are a 24-hour thing. Sometimes, for 24 hours.

When I arrived at my daughter's daycare, teachers stopped and turned to smile at me. Someone held the door open. It was like the scene from Pretty Woman when Julia Roberts steps out of the elevator on the way to the opera, and she's wearing her strapless red gown, and everyone in the lobby turns to look at this stunning young woman, smiling in approval.

My god, people, it's just a little mascara.

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