So Glad That’s Over

There’s nothing like social media for making it impossible to ignore gooey, sentimental holidays laden with unrealistic expectations. Remind me to stay away from That Certain Social Media Site on Mother’s Day next year. Please. Not that I’ll need it, as I suspect that the aversion I’m feeling right now will last at least into the next calendar year. Possibly into the next lifetime.

For me, yesterday’s sugary holiday went something like this: my kids were too sick to help cook breakfast, I had to teach Sunday school and only two kids showed up, my son shamed me during his soccer game by yelling at another teammate and making him cry, and I had to do the Mother’s Day dinner dishes by myself while my husband went outside to cope with the fact that a chipmunk had chewed through our dog’s invisible fence.

I now own two very pretty silk scarves, but I’m not exactly wallowing in sentiment this year. I know my husband and my kids did the best they could (although my son needs to be a *way* better teammate) and that’s about it.

Notice who I haven’t even mentioned yet. Yes, that would be my own mother, who was told early on about our busy busy Sunday, who waffled back and forth about what parts of the day she wanted to share with us, and who ultimately decided to give dinner at our house a miss this year, in a fairly last-minute way, and without specifying a reason. I can’t get rid of the feeling that I failed to meet whatever unspoken expectations that are in her mind. I am a bad, bad daughter. Of course, I already knew that.

Enter That Certain Social Media Site. Happy, healthy kids serving breakfast. Photos of outings to places I would much rather have gone than yet another gosh darn soccer game. Mothers posting photos of the presents they received, for goodness’ sake. Friends my age hugging their wonderful, wonderful mothers who have taught them such wonderful, wonderful lessons about motherhood, life, and the whole entire beautiful cosmic universe.

Excuse me while I mentally vomit. It’s just so sickenly sweet, and so endless. Like high-fructose corn syrup glugging out of a giant vat, ad infinitem.

And then, on top of it, people wishing me and everyone a Happy Mother’s Day. Just when my mental nausea is at its peak.

Gooey, sentimental, greeting-card-company holidays really seem to bring out the precious in just about everyone.

Except me.

Love you & leave you,

Hobbie DeHoy

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