mothers, marigolds, and margaritas

Well, kids, it's that time of year again! Mother's Day is rounding the bend on Sunday, and I? I'm getting the hell out of Dodge. That's right! It's time for Mother's Day Exodus 2009! Last year was our inaugural sojourn, and it was declared to be a yearly celebration of sanity and self-preservation. Don't misunderstand, I do love my mother. I do love that E has a mother (and I love that she's not mine). But Mother's Day? Has always been just this side of the eighth circle of Hell in terms of the in-laws.

Early into my relationship with the husband, his Mother (and, yes, that's mother with a capital M) mandated that the entire day, the entire day, be devoted to singing her high praises and neglecting anyone or anything that may compromise her seat of high distinction, including but not limited to my own mother). All four of her children, including one whose family lives out of state, were expected to be sitting beside her in church on Sunday morning. Not because she wanted to show off her accomplishments, her perfectly - er, seemingly - normal children.

No, it was because a hanging basket was on the line.

Not just any hanging basket, but the hanging basket awarded to the Mother with the Most Children Present at church that morning. I don't know if this is a common ceremony on Mother's Day in baptist churches, but I had never witnessed such treachery in my life. Multiple, endless categories in which mothers across the sanctuary pitted themselves and their children against one another to earn such illustrious titles as "Youngest Mother," "Oldest Mother," and the aforementioned "Mother with the Most Children Present" (not mother with the MOST children, but mother with the most children PRESENT, because heck, no, we aren't giving you these stinking pansies in a basket if you can't get 'em in church. You don't deserve this cheap basket of flowers, lady who birthed a cajillion children). Nevermind, the glaringly obvious torture this absurd display undoubtedly caused all those moms who lost babies and children or who couldn't have them. And all this in church, nonetheless (which is, of course, a discussion for another day on my own issues with "religion").

So two years of everyone gathering together to win Mother her flowers was all my sad soul could take. We decided we would, in fact, attend our church that Mother's Day and visit with Mother after services for lunch (my own mother would be attended to that evening). Mother was enraged and proceeded to call us herself and have all the other siblings call to plead her case for the hanging basket (Why! She's won the basket for eight years in row! Why are you doing this to US?!). Sunday morning was filled with more phone calls pleading her case ("But it's a basket! And I want it!"). We were resolute.

Thankfully, the next year she was unseated by a lovely woman several years her junior who, no doubt, has a covered porch overflowing with stinky, wilted geraniums that my mother-in-law sheds a silent tear for once a year.

This sideshow, coupled with the fact that I can now stake a claim (albeit a tiny one that the grandmothers seemingly allow to slip their minds) in the holiday, led to the inaugural Mother's Day Exodus of 2008.

I'm gathering novels, loading Ipods, checking expiration dates on sunscreen and setting my sights on a decidedly mother-less Mother's Day. We won't have a special dinner, there will be no bold exclamations of my magnificence, certainly there will be NO hanging baskets. There will be quiet evenings on the harbor, sand-filled bikini bottoms, and a bottomless bowl of oysters shared with those who matter most.

I hope all of you are able to find an escape to carve out time for yourselves to just be. To reflect and remember. Please hold close, those mothers whose precious babies aren't here with them; keep them close in heart and thought. Happy Mother's Day, truly, to all you amazing mamas that I can call friends.