I smell Sunday brunches, spa gift certificates, hand lotions, flowers, and glossy Hallmark cards. Yes, I’m afraid to admit it but another Mother’s Day has come to pass, and this year, I was determined to spend Mother’s Day my way.

Webster’s defines mother as a woman in authority, to care for or protect, maternal tenderness or affection. I define mother as the worker bee, the tie that binds, the hand that rocks the cradle, the person who replaces empty milk bags and toilet paper rolls.

The children define mother as the tired-looking woman who walks aimlessly throughout the house playing the roles of cook, chamber maid, laundress, dust-bunny chaser, cab driver, tutor, loans officer, note writer – and all, because “it’s her job.”

As a young mother, I had visions of Mother’s Days to come and how my young brood would gleefully race into my bedroom on Mother’s Day morning, waving home made cards and gifts, followed by a man resembling the husband carrying a silver tray loaded with a lovely breakfast – fresh brewed decaf, pancakes, strawberries, and a day bombarded with love and affection for this woman they adored. Sadly, that vision has faded and reality set in. Years have passed since those foolish, naïve daydreams. Now a hardened, weathered mother, both reality and my spirit have sunk in. The truth of the matter - the young brood has grown to double digits and unruly self-absorbed teenagers. In a word - they don’t have a clue what to do for mother on Mother’s Day.

It all changed the year they stopped making Mother’s Day crafts at school. A mother really doesn’t ask for much – a card, a simple card with a few words of love and gratitude, that’s all it would take to make Mother’s Day special. No need for pomp and ceremony is what I say. Really, I’m not that fussy. All I ask is that for one day out of the year, I can walk into the kitchen and not replace an empty milk bag, walk into the bathroom and not replace an empty toilet paper holder, walk into the laundry room and not find ten loads of jeans and t-shirts that need to be washed immediately because “I have nothing to wear!”.

I still cringe when I think back to Mother’s Day 2008. After eight hours of hearing mother’s uncontrollable sobs, the family finally turned down the volume on the remote and concluded that it was, in fact, Mother’s Day. The two teenagers decided to leave the house at 4:00 p.m. only to return ten minutes later with a potted plant, which I fear they removed from a neighbor’s porch.

Determined to not have history repeat itself, this year, I prepared a thing or two to kickstart my day on the right foot. The silverware sat polished, the menu selected, the linens pressed, the Birks blue velvet jewelry boxes wrapped with my lovely gifts, the poems written and the hand-made cards all signed – all unbeknownst to dear family.

Was it the husband that said, “me thinks that thou protests too much?” Yes, for once in their lives, and mine, this year, Mother’s Day will certainly be different.