Reality check: It is 6:30 A.M. and I am awakened by the shrieks of my two-year old son. My five-year old daughter creeps into our bedroom and pokes me in the ribs to tell me she’s up extra early because it’s Mother’s Day. My husband mumbles “Happy Mother’s Day,” and rolls over for another two hours of sleep. I crawl out of bed and stumble to the bathroom. As I try to focus my eyes, my daughter insists on knowing exactly what I have planned for the day. Somehow when I tell her, “You’re going to be really nice to Mommy all day today,” she doesn’t seem that enthused. I scurry to placate my son, whose wails have grown progressively more unbearable. His Mother’s Day gift to me is an extra large bowel movement in his diaper. 

10:00 A.M.
My husband and kids knock gently on the bedroom door. I tell them to come in. They enter, saying in unison, “Happy Mother’s Day!” My husband carries a beautifully decorated tray, laden with a flaky croissant, jam, hot tea, and a red rose. My daughter hands me a homemade card. My husband gives me a card with a sonnet he has written for me - praising my every body part (including C-section scar), and extolling my maternal virtues. He includes a touching couplet on how much more meaningful it is for him to have a trophy car than a trophy wife. I am moved to tears, and my children rush to embrace me. My husband hands me the entire Sunday New York Times, with all the sections still in it, and says, “Go ahead, read it all.”

Reality check: My kids insist on having a “special” Mother’s Day breakfast, so I make pancakes, which they only half eat, as they decide it’s more fun to make faces out of them and then throw them at each other. As I clean up the pancake crumbs, while Barney sings, “You are special!” my husband enters the kitchen. He tells me that he bought me a card but hasn’t written in it yet. He announces that he will be back with the signed version after he does the bike, showers, and gets his iced coffee from Starbucks. I take a few bites of my cold pancake, as my son proceeds to take all of the clean spoons out of the dishwasher and place them on the floor.
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11:30 A.M.
My husband re-enters our bedroom to say that he will be taking the kids out for the day, as he knows how much I need a break. He tells me that he has planned a Spa Day for me at Bliss. I am ecstatic. We engage in some lighthearted foreplay, with promises of a night of connubial bliss: I will be allowed to hold the remote control for a full two hours, as long as we don’t miss “The Sopranos.” I sing a few bars of “ I Enjoy Being a Girl,” as I make my way to the shower.

Reality check: The apartment is a mess and I have not had a chance to take a shower. My husband is out getting his iced coffee and I run around screaming at the kids to stop screaming at each other. Then I order my daughter to get dressed and proceed to dress my son. We will once again be going to the playground, where I will be looking in two directions at the same time to keep track of my kids. I jump into the shower for two minutes while my son tries to climb in with me. I forget to soap half my body because I am yanking my son’s arm out of the tub area, and pleading with him to “Stop it! Stop it!” He laughs, then cries, then spills the perfume bottle I got four years ago on Mother’s Day from my husband when he still thought to get me a gift. I start to cry a little, then get annoyed with myself for being such a pathetic wreck when I have such wonderful children. I scoop up my little darlings and tell them we’re going to have a great day. My son then runs over my toes with his plastic car.

1:00 P.M.
Every cell in my body feels great. Antonio, the masseur, is bestowing more attention on my right calf than I have on my whole being in years. I am at Bliss, luxuriating in this oasis of hedonism. My water with lemon awaits me, and I haven’t thought about the kids for at least twenty minutes. Even though I know my husband will forget a thousand things the kids need, I’m sure they’ll survive for this small chunk of time I need for Mommy revitalization. After my massage and steam facial, I take myself to lunch at Barney’s and actually enjoy a full-course meal without interruption. I then indulge in some shopping, buying a few completely overpriced and unnecessary items. I am flush with excitement, and I think it shows. Several men seem to be looking at me with interest, as if I might just be an available woman, unencumbered as I am without children. When I realize that I still have a little sexual allure, I get so excited I buy a leopard-print thong, then feel guilty and buy a few things for the kids. I leisurely stroll uptown, swinging my stroller-free hands, now adorned with a few shopping bags.

Reality check: Every cell in my body hurts. My daughter wants to go on the swings and my son wants to run around the playground with somebody else’s toys. We’ve eaten our cheese sandwiches (well, the kids have eaten theirs – I had a few bites of mine). My husband has finally arrived at the park just as it’s about time to go home for our son’s nap. My husband decides that since it’s Mother’s Day, he will play with the kids for ten whole minutes and then go back home to take a nap himself. We shake the sand out of our shoes and walk home. My son takes a nap and my daughter and I play Scrabble Junior until I beg her for some “private time.” She lets me have fifteen minutes to myself, except that I spend most of that time packing for our impending Mother’s Day excursion to our club, where we will celebrate Mother’s Day with the rest of our extended family, some of whom barely speak to each other.

5:30 P.M.
We are at our club, having a Mother’s Day buffet dinner with my parents, my in-laws, and my grandparents. Everyone is enjoying a convivial meal. The kids are eating happily, and I get to finish all my food without interruption. My mother loves her present and can’t get over how well behaved the kids are. My grandmother is cooing over my son’s ability to use his fork for something other than a weapon. My in-laws tell me what a great mother I am and remind my husband how lucky he is to have me for a wife. My husband drapes his arm around me and looks at me the way he did at our wedding (without the panic-stricken part), and I marvel at my good fortune.

Reality check: We are at out club, having a Mother’s Day buffet dinner with my parents, my in-laws, and my grandparents, and we’re paying the tab. It is a dysfunctional carnival atmosphere. My son rubs food all over himself and others, and my daughter makes me go to the buffet table four times and doesn’t eat half of the food she takes. I haven’t eaten anything other than a few chicken nuggets. My mother pretends to like her present but I know she hates it. She tells me I spoil the children and that’s why I’m so miserable. I tell her, “No, you didn’t give me enough love as a child, and that’s why I’m so miserable.” My in-laws won’t speak more than a few polite sentences to my parents because they’re still mad that they were asked to fork over money for the wedding (over ten years ago) and couldn’t invite all their friends. My grandfather keeps complaining about his health, while my grandmother tells us how impossible he is to live with and how she doesn’t know how she has the strength to put up with it all. We tell her she is a saint and that her brisket is much better than the meat they’re serving at the club. My husbands yells at his mother for ordering two drinks, as she doesn’t ever drink alcohol except when we’re paying the bill. She laughs it off and orders another White Russian. My father-in-law slumps further into his chair. My husband hisses into my ear that he will never, ever do this dinner again and that if we don’t leave soon he will sever all family ties indefinitely.

All the mothers at the table receive little boxes of chocolate truffles. My daughter eats all of mine and then smears chocolate hands on my new dress. My son starts crying to get out of the highchair and my mother and grandmother screech at me, “Let him cry! It won’t kill him!” I have to go to the bathroom but I don’t have time. We all fake-kiss goodbye, while my husband carries out our wailing son, who now doesn’t want to leave. Nobody thanks us for dinner.

8:30 P.M.
It’s been a fabulous day. I tuck the children into their respective beds and sing the “goodnight” song. As my daughter wraps her lanky arms around me, I inhale the sticky-sweet smell of childhood. The kids kiss me and say “night-night.” I reflect on how lucky I am and how much I love them.

Reality check: I am exhausted. I can’t believe how hard motherhood is. I worry about how my own kids will blame me for their shortcomings and disappointments. Maybe I will criticize their parenting skills, even though I know we are all just making it up as we go along. The kids are finally in their beds and ready to give me a few minutes to remind myself why I decided to become a Mommy. As my daughter wraps her lanky arms around me, I inhale the sticky-sweet smell of childhood. The kids kiss me and say “night-night.” I reflect on how lucky I am and how much I love them.

Pamela Weiler Grayson is a New York-based freelance writer. She has two young children, who are mostly responsible for her dark humor and borderline sanity. Her work has appeared in such publications as New York Newsday, ParentGuide, Quest magazine, and Moms Online.