One of the things I love most about my husband is his thoughtfulness. Over the course of our relationship—we’ve been together 12 years—he’s honored every occasion from Valentine’s Day to my New York anniversary. And he usually goes above and beyond: I’ve celebrated February 14 at the exact table the Obamas once sat and toasted my birthday with front row seats to an impossible-to-see Broadway show. Heck, our wedding inadvertently fell on Friday the 13th, which means I get a card not just on our official anni, but also every other Friday the 13th in a given year. Aw.
But Mother’s Day? Almost annually, my spouse, um, forgets.
To be fair, it’s a pressure-filled holiday; one where, ever since my son was born, I fantasize about all the clichés we’ve been prescribed by the movies—breakfast in bed, beautiful blooms, spa treatments with cucumber slices atop my eyes.
The reality usually plays out a lot differently. Let’s just say for my very first Mother’s Day, I had to dash to the store at the last minute to buy my own peonies. My husband’s explanation: “I thought the best way to celebrate was simply to spend the day together?” Sweet, but also no.