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I didn’t buy you a card this year. I always spend a lot of time looking through all of the cards, humor cards and sentimental cards alike, but this year I couldn’t find one that worked.

Nothing quite put into words the impact you leave on this world, on my world. There wasn’t a card that said, Your laugh is the best sound on Earth. I couldn’t find one that said I see so much of you in my daughter. She’s wild and fierce and brave and strong, just like you, Mom. There were no cards that described the days when I get to talk to you and how they are a little less stressful and hurried, that I’m more grounded and calm when I get to hear your voice. None put into words the way I feel when I come home, when I sit at your table while we have our morning coffee.

I read card after card and replaced each in it’s little bin, unable to commit to one.

Because you’re bigger than a card and greater than someone else’s words.

You’re my mother, which now that I’m a mother too, I understand how important that role is, and I realize how fortunate I am that I get to be your daughter.

Thank you today and everyday for all that you’ve done and do.

I love you.

Mandi and Mom

“What do you want for Mother’s Day, Mom?” My son asked.

I thought for a minute.

I want to sleep in, and by sleep in, I don’t want a child coming to my side of the bed during a middle-of-the-night thunderstorm or with an iPad that doesn’t work or a boo-boo that needs a band-aid. I want to sleep uninterrupted until my body tells me I have to get out of bed.

I don’t want to brew the coffee or make breakfast that will go un-eaten and left abandoned on the table for me to clean up. I don’t want to pour the orange juice or argue over which cup each kid wants. I want to pour my coffee and drink it while it’s hot. I want it refilled for me only to leave the cup on the coffee table for someone else to pick up and wash.

I don’t want to pick out clothes or find underwear or matching socks or tie shoes. I don’t want to fix anyone’s hair. I don’t want to even walk up the stairs before we have to leave the house.

I want to shower without feeling rushed, alone in the bathroom with the door closed and listen to music as I put on my make-up and fix my hair. Alone.

I don’t want to decide what we eat for lunch.

I don’t want to wipe anyone’s bottom or clean anyone’s nose or pick up dirty clothes or mop up any spills.

I don’t want to spend an hour cooking a meal that everyone will complain about when I serve it after setting the table myself and pouring everyone a drink.

I don’t want to bathe the kids, or fold the laundry and put it away. I don’t want to go through the back packs and decipher what needs to be done for the upcoming week.

I want to sit on the couch all day and watch mindless television or get sucked into a good book and ignore the world around me. All day long.

I want to go to bed and fall instantly asleep without worrying about how everything will get done the next day.

I suddenly realized I had an answer for my son.

I looked at my little boy and said, “I want to be Dad.”

He laughed and with a big crooked smile said, “But you’re a girl.”