Confessions of a Single Mom

I Hate Mother’s Day. I fight back the tears when my son reaches to the bottom of his backpack and pulls out a crumpled up card that smells like last weeks lunch. This guilty feeling consumes me. I’m ashamed that I want more. I see the married moms with fresh cut flowers and bellies full from brunch. The parade of wives walking leisurely with their family as they shop at the farmer’s market. I swear one was wearing a tiara, and waved at me in pity.

Yes, I am grateful for the sponge bob stickers. Yes, it is unfair to expect more from a child. Yet somehow in my heart I hope only for what the other mothers get. Warm waffles with whipped cream and a leisurely stroll where I can look at things I can’t buy without a complaining kid tugging at our sleeves to rush up.

My boy suffers through my cycles. He has no choice but to watch me debate which tampons to buy. He has nowhere to hide when I shop for intimate items and probably shouldn’t know the benefits of an underwire bra.

This year I will do better. I will remember that this is a position I took willingly. I didn’t become a mother for all the glory of changing diapers, packing lunches and the annihilation of my abdomen. I will remember that my son is a victim of circumstance. All I will ask for an extra ten minutes of snuggling in the morning. Whatever he gives me (whatever he doesn’t give me) I will be grateful for.