  Mothers' Day is stupid. I don't want Hallmark telling my kids to buy me something once a year. I remember all the lame stuff I threw together Mother's Day morning as a kid, and I feel bad for my mom who had to throw on a smile and say how much she loved it. I hate the holiday-ification of every single relationship our culture acknowledges (except the same sex committed pair bond, Hallmark should really go after that loop hole). Today at the library, the kids had the corniest project where they had to make a mothers' day card, only they're all so young that the parents were the ones really making the card. Or, as is often the case these days, the nannies.
It was awkward for us all, especially the nannies, for whom the holiday should be named nanny day. Right in the middle of a strange story book about everything moms can't do (like say good bye w/o kissing, eat marshmellow cereal instead of healthy yogurt, or make your bed w/o your help), Aidan perfectly summed up my thoughts on the whole capitalistic regime that is this Sunday and its build-up. He barfed. That's right, I got a little more than usual out of my public institution-supporting tax dollars this week as my son christened the carpet of the Montrose library's reading area with last night's home made pizza and this morning's hot cereal grains. Everyone either stared, gasped, or said "ew," as did the ever eloquent children's librarian. For a moment I almost gave him my purse to throw up in, but I really do love that purse.
Instead I cupped my hands and captured it as best I could, thinking mom's can't help but catch spewing tomatoes either. Finally a nanny got me a trash can, and scooped Ellie up as she screamed when I ushered Aidan to the bathroom. Except for her, I can't point to one of the several moms, grandparents, nannies, and library workers that offered help or said anything that might keep this from becoming a traumatic memory for Aidan. There wasn't much left to do but wash our hands, strip him down, and leave. As we walked to the car I could only laugh. I don't think we can go back there again.
Anyway, here's a much funnier and happier story about the stuff only moms _can_ do: urlLink Gwen's Petty, Judgmental, Evil Thoughts : "'Love bugs' is a euphemism. There've been a lot of love bugs flying around lately. Maybe you call them something different where you're from. Here, love bugs are those exhibitionistic little bastards who mate while flying. 'Hey! Love bugs!
' yells Dallas, who is nine. 'They're always double,' says Rory, six. 'Yeah. Mom, how come they're always stuck together like that? ' says Dallas. 'Because they're having sex,' I say.
(I'm honest in my motherhood like that. ) 'No... they can't be having sex,' says Dallas, 'because their butts are stuck together - not their mouths. ' Ha! As I told several people today, I should have replied, 'I said they were having sex - I didn't say they were in love. ' But, instead, I said something awkward about genitalia and then the kids remembered the talk we had a while back about the making of babies. 'Oh, yeah.
Okay,' they said. Then a love bug couple hit Dallas on the arm and he said 'Ew! Y'all get out of here! '" 
