I was feeling report-cardish with Mother’s Day coming around, like it was a tool of assessment of my mothering, how my kids speak, their rate of literacy, the shape of the house and laundry, and why can’t I remember to pick-up new razors and look at these feet, these nails. When will it ease-up, if ever?

It was last night, the night before Mom’s Day. I basically needed to crash into bed. You know when you need to talk, but you’re just too exhausted? When you feel the painful need for a personal trainer, personal assistant, private/home chef–you know, the whole working Mom thing? It can feel like I’m failing, miserably.

There is such an often-unspoken, intrinsic need or maybe self-imposed expectation for us to excel at EVERYTHING and still have oodles, rolls and rolls of spare time, and much to show for it. It all could sound like the wailings of white women on Pinterest, but I felt pretty dark. Who wants to fail? What woman wants to feel mediocre, or just a scraping-by. Dark. I was without my sense of humor, seeing little perspective.

All those thoughts messing up Mother’s Day but he said, “I hope you can just enjoy the day, just enjoy, without all that stuff, the judging, comparing, overthinking, and just feel loved. I agreed. I slept.

And then, this, that next morning:

Folded fanned-out napkin, steaming coffee in my favorite “M” mug, a sweet mini CHAMPAGNE, cereal, a chocolate bar, perfectly cooked eggs as if that guy on the perfectionista Martha Stewart video had tightly made them, an expertly lavish plate of strawberries, grapes, first cherries of the season, their stems crisscrossed; it was all unexpected. I was just hoping coffee had been made when I readied myself to go on up after some extra special sleep. Isaac found me at our door, tray in hand, and ordered me back into bed with my hotel-styled breakfast spread. I can be good at following directions.

Jazz, Champagne, coffee, everything beyond and relaxing, so much so, that I even did my nails.

And it was a day. It was so good to have gotten all those jitters and tired crankerydoos out of the way. I got to hear encouragements right where I needed it, in those rocky, tired crags of mother-teacher-full-time-fatigue. Love is a complete meal and drinks in bed. It is the practical and sweeping, words of life and gifts that stay longer than a day.

So much life and joy even before before ten am or noon. You look on at these kids, you see your life walk by on strong and fast legs, sit on your lap, giggle, skip, quarrel, cuddle, whatever. You hold hands and piggy-back.

I am in this family of total honesty and commitment and wholehearted desire to reflect the heart of G-d, to build up, accept, and support each other; aka they love me! And we eat really excellent food. No pretenses. These are my people, my clan, the children I’ve miraculously birthed and am raising as we speak. I’m calling Mother’s Day the day when you don’t have to overthink. Being is enough. You’re a mother.