I realized something yesterday.

Mother’s Day is a day, like any other day, for “only” moms. It was a nice enough day, in so far as it was like the Sunday before and probably the Sunday to follow.

As an only parent, there’s no sleeping in on Mother’s Day. My kids get up between 5:30 and 6:15 every.freaking.day. They each threw homemade Mother’s Day gifts at me before I was even out of bed. (Lauren made a card, and Ethan made a sun catcher and a Mom poem.)

Then they demanded breakfast right away. And conveniently forgot to take the dog out or get his food. So the dog jumped around under my feet as I screamed for someone to take care of him, at the same time that the kids screamed for berries. No, toast. No, cereal. No, eggs. OK, how about a little of everything?

And after they decided NOT to eat anything, it was up to me to clean up the mess. Then off to the shower, which should’ve been good for 10 minutes of peace and quiet, but instead became a parade of kids tattle-tailing on each other. Forget drying my hair or putting on makeup, I was lucky just to get dressed before I referred a wrestling match in my bedroom.

When I finally wrangled the kids into the car to go get flowers to plant (my Mother’s Day gift to myself AND “from” the kids since I let them pick out the flowers), it was complete chaos at the nursery. Apparently, everyone shopped for flowers. I lifted Lauren in the cart, to her dismay, because I just couldn’t chase both of them AND find flowers AND keep my sanity. Lauren continued to complain about being in the cart, and Ethan continued to aggravate her as I check out. They both argued with each other as I put them in the car and cranked the music to try to ignore the “he poked me” and “she’s looking at me” coming from the backseat.

I realized that was now lunchtime. (Where did the day go?) And I asked the kids what they want for lunch. They both shouted out fast food places (different ones, naturally) and suddenly burger and fries didn’t seem too bad. Quick drive thru order/pick up and casually tossed of the kids’ meal toys into the backseat and then the drive home.

The dog was barking from the backyard, where we left him basking in the sun. Flowers were taken out of the car to be planted later. And we sat down to lunch. The kid meal toys were apparently too much fun to get anyone to eat their food. And when they did finish, Ethan was still hungry so he asked Lauren for a few of her chicken nuggets (which we knew she won’t eat). She protested, he yelled, I picked up the nuggets from her plate and tossed them to Ethan across the table. Everyone was quiet for a few minutes before it was Lauren’s nap time.

Nap time is always a protest, but I convinced her to have some “quiet time” before we planted flowers. “No quiet time, no helping me plant,” I told her. She cooperated.

Ethan went outside to play. I sat on the couch to fold laundry. My eyes got heavy and I apparently fell asleep, only to wake up to Ethan watching a stupid movie. When did he come in the house?

Lauren started singing, “Is it time for me to go downstairs? I really want to go downstairs!” It’s her post-nap anthem.

She came downstairs and apparently changed into another outfit, but I didn’t even want to argue (or know) about what was wrong with what she was wearing when she went upstairs. We walked to the front door to go plant flowers, just as a huge crack of thunder exploded and the sky opened up.

Planting will have to wait. “Why?” Lauren asked.

I let the kids share iPad time as I folded laundry and picked up rogue Legos. I asked Ethan if he finished his homework. “Oh yeah,” he said. “I forgot.” And he scrambled to finish Spanish, math, and reading.

Then it was dinner time, and I decided to just take out leftovers from the week. I needed refrigerator room anyway, and the leftover Chinese, fettuccine alfredo, and steak and chicken fajitas should satisfy everyone. Of course, each kiddo wanted something different, but that’s okay. I just wanted the leftovers gone. Ethan said, “Maybe if we had a dad, he’d take you out to dinner for Mother’s Day.”

We polished off everything except the cashew chicken and some rice. Then I cleaned up the mess, started the dishwasher, and sat down for a few minutes before bathtime and storytime and bedtime.

It wasn’t a bad day, just a normal one. For me, apparently everyday is Mother’s Day.

(I should mention that B got me a Mother’s Day gift, a monthly subscription to BirchBox. I’ve looked into subscribing several times, but just never did. He NAILED his gift to me – I LOVE girly product samples! Now I feel pressured to find the perfect Father’s Day gift for him…)