I must have missed the memo.
For Mother's Day, I dreamed sleeping late, homemade, wholewheat blueberry pancakes and an afternoon in the park under glorious sun relaxing with my little family all would be in the forecast. And maybe an hour at the coffee shop writing while sipping an ice chai was in my vision, too.
But that kind of stuff is what dreams are made of when hubby gets a stomach virus and can barely get off the couch. Therefore, Mother's Day celebrations were left to my boys.
Two-and-a-half-year-old G.'s definition of Mother's Day was something like, "It's Mother's Day, which must mean she's apparently going to celebrate with all the other moms." So when Buba showed up on the porch offering him a lunch date at his house, he ran out the door faster than he could say, "See you later, suckers-- er mother." Baby E. misconstrued the Mother's Day memo I thought I sent out, too -- you know, the one that included relaxation. The memo he read must have made it seem like a Mother's Day celebration meant "it's Mother's Day, so do.not.leave.her.side.for.one.moment.the.entire.day.because she's mommy and it's her day."
So he didn't.
Even when it was bedtime, he refused to sleep if I so much as moved a toe toward the floor from my spot next to him in bed.
So we ventured downstairs together at 8 p.m. and Baby E. ended Mother's Day how he insisted we spend it: attached, quite literally, to his mother.
Though it wasn't what I expected and the closest I got to the coffee shop was the drive through, turns out being snuggled up with my little one all day was just what I needed to feel adequately celebrated.
Although, based on this picture, that sleeping in thought I had might have helped, too.