It's Mother's Day .... If you need me, I'll be napping

It’s been quite a while since the fledgling (and wholly imaginary) organization “People for Less Unrest in Marriage,” has called upon me to speak on its behalf.

I just wish it didn’t have to be so early in the morning.

What time is it, anyway? Yawwwwn.

No matter. Here I am, on Mother’s Day, representing PLUM when I should be inspecting the insides of my eyelids all because I found myself awake at some ungodly hour, looking at the clock on the bedside table and wondering a thousand insignificant questions: Wasn’t I supposed to be sleeping right now? Isn’t that what that person who takes up a sliver of the bed I hog (and whose laundry I often separate from the dirty diapers before washing) told me would happen? Why is this toddler toddling up to me with a full diaper? And why is his shirt soggy to the shoulders? Is that the fireplace lighter he has in his hands?

Too many questions for one groggy mommy, for sure.

Yes, it was just another Sunday morning. However, since my husband was home from being “on the road” and vanquishing art emergencies (or whatever it is he does when his iPhone buzzes, sending him and his trusty Sprinter Van away any give weekend day to deal with a enormous sculpture’s problematic placement) I had planned to sleep in.

In fact, I do recall that the guy (whose clothes I often fold before jamming on a shelf or stuffing into a drawer) had promised to take the kids to breakfast, or to the park, or some other place outside of the house so such a feat of motherly negligence could be realized.

Those of you who are moms realize that no matter when your kids get up any sleep YOU get after 8 a.m. is gravy. I, however, hold out hope for a noon rising. Not today.

After I snatch the lighter out of the boy’s hands and wrestled him into a fresh diaper and dry t-shirt, I meander out into the living room to find the man wrapped in a blanket like a cocoon watching Sunday morning television.

“Sorry. ... I feel sick," he groans pitifully. "I have the chills.”

"I hope it’s not the Swine Flu,” I grumble, remembering the days I used to bid him good travels by saying I hoped his plane didn’t crash.

“Don’t say such a thing,” he protests in response.

“Well I do ... hope it’s NOT the swine flu. I hope it’s just allergies and not some antibiotic-resistant flesh-eating super bug inhabiting your nasal cavity. ... Hey, did you make coffee?”

See, I’m not bitter. We at the People for Less Unrest in Marriage realize that sometimes the waves of our best intentions are dashed on the rocks of some opportunistic microbe lurking on some fine art gallery door knob, and there’s just nothing anyone can do about it ... not even if they immersed themselves in vats of hand sanitizer.

Yet, if he were “The Mom” the virus’ effects would be beaten into submission by sheer willpower and a single shot of well-aimed Lysol. Someone, after all, has got to get the kids’ lunches made, or get them to school, or wipe up that spill someone else (and I’m not pointing fingers) made when he was making himself a cup of tea.

It’s really not a big deal. Making my own cup of coffee and corralling tiny soldiers bent on seeding the dining room with toy landmines, isn’t the same arduous task when you’re not running late for work or trying to get to dance class.

Sunday is more laid back. It’s a day in which we might even be thinking about the estimable concept of forgiveness.

“Mom? I’m sorry I let The Champ flush dad’s boxer shorts down the toilet. I didn’t want to get them out by myself. It’s kind of gross.”

“That’s OK, honey. He won’t miss them. Your dad mentioned he was getting low on underwear. I needed to buy him some new ones anyway.”