Tag Archives: celebrating Mother’s Day

The Death of Wednesday

9 May

Dear Wednesday,

Here it was Thursday and you wouldn’t leave me alone.  You just had to follow me, like some crazed stalker. You tried sucking me back into that dismal state that only Wednesday drama can do. You followed me into Thursday, clutching onto my sanity and peace of mind. You suck, Wednesday.

Normally I don’t consider Wednesday “hump day” or get-me-to-Friday-already day, because when you’ve got two kids the days sort of blend together and they sort of lose their feeling. You don’t realize what day it is until you turn on AMC and see what’s playing. Although sometimes I wish my life was an hour-long drama or better yet a half-hour comedy. It could be wrapped up and resolved by the end of the episode and I’d be drinking coffee at the end of the day and smiling as the credits rolled. It’s too bad I don’t drink coffee. Everyone I know drinks coffee and they seem to be getting passed Wednesday just fine.

I normally let go of 24 periods that suck. I try not to have too many emotional hangovers because they rob me of the chance for a better day when the sun rises. But not today. Pinche Wednesday.

I needed it to be neatly wrapped up already. I didn’t feel like re-winding the events of the day and going through all the what-if scenarios. I was so wishing that Jack Bauer would swoop on in and save this nuclear mess that I call life. But Jack Bauer did not come.

It’s days like this that I don’t like gray hair or wrinkles or age 37. Days like this make me look in the mirror and wonder if I have any brown hair left willing and able to take on any new adventures out there. I know there’s Nice N’ Easy, but that’s like cheating. I don’t mind having gray hair. I like them when they are born out of excitement and living an awesome state of existence. Stuff like bungy jumping, zip lining, paddle boarding or anything ending in “ing” really. But when these gray little fiends rise out of the depths of despair during the “for worse” part of your days I’m not so much a fan.

No Wednesday you suck. You gave me a few new ones, and I wasn’t really happy about it.

And then it happened. The death of Wednesday, just like that and it was all because of a tea party.

A tea party.

I had forgotten that  I was invited to a pre-Mother’s Day Tea Party at my son’s preschool. In truth I wasn’t sure what to expect with some of the Children of the Corn parents planning to attend the festivities. But I promised my son I would attend, so I braced myself and forged on.

It ended up being exactly what I needed. Thursday rocked. It was definitely a cure to my emotional hangover.


The Invite

The Invite


The treats await.

The treats await.


On my placemat.

On my place mat.


The snack at the tea party.

The snack at the tea party.


These were gone by the time I took my second sip of tea. Most of them eaten by my son of course. I was glad that each table had its own ... I didn't want a riot to ensue

These were gone by the time I took my second sip of tea. Most of them eaten by my son of course. I was glad that each table had its own … I didn’t want a riot to ensue.


While snacking on treats I explored the Mother's Day folder created by son.

While snacking on treats I explored the Mother’s Day folder created by son.


His notes amused me.

His notes amused me.


This was his how well do you know your mom quiz. It definitely got a smile from me. He's usually asleep when I watch my AMC favorites, but he had some good answers.

This was his how well do you know your mom quiz. I wondered what the teacher thought as she wrote down his answers. It definitely got a smile from me.  I think he’s too young to know about AMC and HBO, so he stuck to the PG rating show.


My portrait. I'm smiling, can you tell?

My portrait. I’m smiling, can you tell?


The little goodie bags waiting for moms

On our way out the little goodie bags await.


Thursday … yeah … definitely the cure.

The Ice Sculpture, Without The Melting Part

12 May


When you think of Mother’s Day, you don’t think of stress and anxiety, well at least you’re not supposed to have those feelings.

 The concepts of closeness and unity should surround you as you feast at an awesome brunch that features mimosas, the omelette guy, and ice sculptures. You see smiling mothers and daughters in matching flower dresses and white hats hugging each other and hanging out by the fruit. Families shower mom with gifts at the table, and mom genuinely enjoys the effort.

This does not happen in my household.

I am consumed with anxiety on Mother’s Day. I don’t know if you’re aware, but the relationship with my mother is not exactly a Hallmark-American Greetings type of relationship. It’s different. Most chicks I know willingly hang out with their mothers and love every minute of it. They go on shopping sprees buying hers and hers matching outfits, or inclusive vacations where they clink their glasses together in a toast, or to the movies where they share each other’s popcorn.

We do not have this kind of relationship. We have stress and sassy Spanish words.

I have the kind of relationship where I’m stressed out about buying a gift because nothing I’ve ever gotten her was received with a smile, except that one time when I got Juan Gabriel tickets. But that dude doesn’t perform in the states every year. There is no it’s-the-thought-that-counts sentiment here. Instead I get the look.  You know, the I-can’t-believe-this-is-my-gift look. So after stressing out trying to please her and being consumed with anxiety every year I made a change. I switched over to gift cards, but even then some of the stores did not share her interests. So now it’s just cash or a Visa gift card.

At first glance it may seem impersonal, but when I tried getting personal, it did not work out. Cash seems to be the norm now and I haven’t gotten any complaints. No radiating smiles, but no looks of disappointment either. Some where in the middle I guess. But the anxiety doesn’t go away as I must spend the entire day trying to do nice things for her, which she may or may not enjoy.

But what about me? What about The Guat?


I’m not celebrated much. The veteran Guats usually get top billing on this holiday: My mom, aunts, cousins, and sister. I’m in my mid thirties with two kids, but I’m still the “youngest” of The Guat clan. So the mom crown is worn by others. But I’m still celebrated by my kids. My son shares cards made of unevenly cut construction paper, crayons, and handprints. The baby just decides not to spit up on me. 

But just when I thought the only recognition of motherhood would be courtesy of my kids, I received this awesome handmade card from a friend in the mail. Actual mail, not email. Regular envelope stuff that needs a stamp to get to you.

She took pictures from a recent pinata party of my smiling kids: my son mastering the art of hula hoops and the baby checking out her brother, all under the California sun. A real Martha Stewart effort. I loved it. So I thank my friend, who’s genuinely kind and awesome herself, for this cool Mother’s Day recognition. This was the Hallmark moment of the day —  the ice sculpture without the melting part.