By Jackie Papandrew
May 9 , 2007
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 Jackie Papandrew is an award-winning writer, syndicated humor columnist,
coffee addict and mom to a motley crew of children and pets who provide a
steady stream of column ideas and dirt. She's also wife to a very patient
man who had no idea, years ago when he still had time to escape, what he
was getting himself into.
Visit her website at JackiePapandrew.com |
A Mother's Day Manifesto
Even though Mother's Day is fixed on the calendar, I've noticed in the last few years that it seems to catch the motley crew of kids who call me Mom (and the man who helped create them) by surprise. Despite my subtle system of reminders that begin in April -- in which I sigh heavily and say, to no one in particular, "I just can't believe Mother's Day is coming up so soon" -- my family invariably arises on that special Sunday and expresses astonishment -- while trying to avoid the flames shooting out of my eyes -- that the darn day has snuck up on them again.
It wasn't always this way. I've received my share of those wonderful, irreplaceable gifts made by eager young hands: decorated pencil holders, picture frames studded with colored macaroni, the laminated footprints of a five-year-old, the I Love You Mommy mug. I remember the flowered, handmade apron I got one year and the artful collage created with canned food labels that left me guessing at the contents of my cans for weeks.
But with the approach of adolescence, when childlike sweetness sours a bit and honoring your mother can seem about as cool as elevator music, my well of homemade wonders suddenly ran dry. The holiday was conveniently forgotten until the last minute, and I'd end up holding a wilted bunch of hastily-purchased flowers and eating a pancake dinner at IHOP.
So this year, I've taken matters into my own hands. I wrote a list cleverly titled What I Want for Mother's Day and put it on the refrigerator for everyone to see. Naturally, the list has been knocked off, stepped on, used to blot a spilled spot of jelly, but never, as far as I can tell, actually read. Even the dog, after determining that it was not edible, has ignored it.
Realizing a more direct approach was required, I recently gathered my loved ones around me – actually, I stood in front of the TV they were watching – and began to recite from my mom’s manifesto. I had to speak loudly to drown out the catcalls and boos coming from the crowd, but I bravely persisted:
What I Want for Mother’s Day
No. 1 -- I want coffee brought to me in bed the moment I awaken. I do not want to have to get up and wake you all up to remind you that it is Mother’s Day. The coffee should be of the traditional strength and consistency. Not thick as Mississippi Mud like you made for me last year or the weaker-than-water stuff I got the year before. Begin practicing now. And with the coffee, I want chocolate – lots of it. Bring me chocolate in every form known to woman.
No. 2 – I want a temporary cessation of all maternal responsibilities. No cleaning, no cooking, no breaking up knock-down-drag-out fights, no toy repair, no toilet unclogging, not even any stuck-zipper zapping. I plan to take a very hot bath and read a very long book. And I will allow myself the luxury of using a brand-new bar of soap. Not once during this glorious bath will anyone interrupt me with “Hey Mom, where’s the sugar?” or “Did I mention I have a science project due tomorrow?”
No. 3 – After my bath, I want to have control of the television. THE TV – the 52-inch high-definition behemoth around which all the males in the house genuflect. No ESPN will appear on the TV that day. There will be no Victoria ’s Secret Specials. I will be watching every movie Brad Pitt ever made. I’ll probably also eat some more chocolate.
No. 4 -- I’d like to be taken to dinner at a nice restaurant, one that requires an advance reservation and has no child’s menu. During the meal, I’d like my offspring to conduct themselves admirably. No eating with your fingers, no chewing with your mouth open, no kicking a sibling under the table. And not a single word about bodily processes.
No. 5 – After dinner, I’d like us all to go through family pictures together and reminisce about old times. You are required to look pleasant and appear to be having fun. Not even one teenage eye may roll in disgust. No surreptitious text messages may be sent to friends. And each one of you has to say “I love you, Mom,” and you have to mean it.
At that, several groans went up. I folded the paper and finished with something my Grandma used to say, something ungrammatical but undeniable.
“Just remember,” I told my gang. “If Mamma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”
I’ll let you know how the Big Day goes.
© Jackie Papandrew 2007
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