Ah....Mother's Day. A day to celebrate our mothers, to be pampered as a mother, to sleep in if at all possible, a day when, JOY OF JOYS, Ward Council has been cancelled. There are books to unwrap, cards to read, and lots of hugs and kisses. Then everyobdy leaves Mom alone so she can read the books, or nap, or just enjoy. Again, I say - Ahhhhhh........ Then there is the next day. The flowers DH swears he owes me are, apparently, still in the shop, or else still growing in some garden, waiting for the supreme moment when he deems them just beautiful enough for his lovely wife. I guess they just didn't grow fast enough. I think he's waiting for me to pick up a bouquet at Costco next time I'm there. My son yells "ball!" and picks up a rock from his sister's rock collection and throws it. He does this several times, apparently deriving great joy from the experience. The dog, Maggie, keeps trying to avoid the rocks thrown in her general direction, because my son doesn't understand why she is not going crazy, what with all the newfound wealth in the form of balls. Maggie is usually a ball hound, but is smarter than the average 1-year-old, being able to make the distinction between balls and rocks. She eventually escapes upstairs, with the rock-throwing fiend following her all the way. My daughter is mortified that her rock collection has been desecrated by toddler hands. (What is the deal with rock collections, anyway? I remember having one, too. Is it developmentally necessary or something?) I drop my daughter off at preschool, and am ready to dash to the elementary school to drop off the kindergartener, then go home, put the toddler to bed, and enjoy a blissful two hours of blogging (I mean housecleaning! Reading! Something productive!) only to be told that I am the co-op mom for said preschool that day. It truly was on my calendar. It was just that in my Mother's Day haze, I forgot to look at the calendar Sunday night to prepare myself for the week. So I race to the elementary school, call DH, order him to go to the store and pick up a snack for 13 preschoolers. He meets me with the snack (great guy, even if he does hate to buy flowers), I race back to the preschool, and spend the next 2 hours gluing, cutting, drawing, and generally just doing preschool-y things. Now, I don't mind doing these things, it's just that I was mentally prepared for some quiet time. And when I'm mentally prepared for down time, and me no get the down time, me no-likey. But it all works out, and it is, after all, part of the job description to protect the dog from rock throwing fiends. I didn't know it when I signed up, but that doesn't make it any less real. And hey, I can always blog at midnight.