Okay so I really hate Mother’s Day. I am coming down firmly on that. I’ve been sort of wishy washy in my hatred of it for the last two years but this year I am coming out loud and proud to say: I fucking hate Mother’s Day. I think 364 days out of the year I feel mostly (and in this order) gratitude, joy, pride, and wistful regret regarding my adoption situation, but on Mother’s Day I fucking hate it. I really do.
My coworker at the restaurant sent me a text message the other day saying: “The Saturday before Mother’s Day which this year is the 11th is national birth mother’s day. That my dear is your day and a day we will celebrate and you will be proud of.” I love her for doing that. People in my life are so supportive. It was such a nice gesture that I didn’t have the heart to say that yes, I know about birth mother’s day and no, I do not want to celebrate it. But then I remembered that I would absolutely use it as an excuse to get shitfaced so fuck it, sure, let’s celebrate me.
Those plans got completely torpedoed when our work schedule for the week went up. We offer Sunday brunch, and Mother’s Day (both brunch and dinner) is one of our busiest days of the year. Turns out I will be pulling my first ever double shift, working 12 hours in the kitchen. I have only worked brunch once, a year ago, when I was trained to do it. It’s an entirely different menu and okay the specifics don’t count – what matters is that it’s going to be a hard, stressful, terrible, rotten, no-good day. My thoughts about it happened as follows:
1. God damn it there is no way I can get shitfaced blackout fall-down drunk on Saturday night if I have to work a 12 hour shift at 10 am Sunday morning.
2. I don’t want to work on Sunday AT ALL it is my least favorite day of the year and I just want to do what I do every year which is put on a prom dress and feel sorry for myself while eating ice cream.
3. No, wait, this is a blessing in disguise. I will be running around like a crazy person in a very busy kitchen – there will be no time to feel sorry for myself! I won’t have a moment to think about it! This is the best thing that could have possibly happened! Minus losing my ability to get drunk the night before.
4. Wait, shit, the restaurant is going to be full of mothers with their families celebrating motherfucking Mother’s Day. We give out flowers to moms. Brunch will be all old people and I can handle that but dinner will be young couples with their babies celebrating their first or at least early Mother’s Days and I have issues with tearing up when I see a baby in the dining room that looks even remotely like Danger.
5. Oh my god, I’m going to cry in the kitchen. I never cry in the kitchen. In fact I pride myself on not ever, ever crying in the kitchen. This is bad. I am going to be openly weeping all day and there is not a thing I will be able to do about it.
I had all these thoughts in the span of about 90 seconds, while out at the bar with all my coworkers. Everyone knows about Danger, so I looked up from my beer and said, “Hey guys – I’m going to be openly weeping in the kitchen all day on Mother’s Day, and it’s not because I will be stressed or it will be busy, but because I am really going to miss my son and there’s nothing I can do about it. So I need you all to just ignore it, okay?” And they all sort of looked at me funny for a second, took a moment, and agreed (well, most of them said they would probably not completely ignore me but try to hug me in any spare seconds we might have, which was appreciated). I feel like true colleagues and friends are the ones that understand that you just need to weep sometimes.
I continued my tradition of sending Linda expensively passive-aggressive Mother’s Day gifts. It will pass, and everything will be fine, and I will go back to my strange-but-mostly-positive feelings about my adoption situation. But I say right now, to you all: I fucking hate Mother’s Day.