The overwhelming sense of relief I feel when Mother’s Day ends is matched only by the relief I experience  on October 28, the day after my birthday.

I know this is messed up.

Don’t get me wrong — it was a terrific Mother’s Day. The best ever. Really. The first words I heard were from Sophie:

“Happy Mother’s Day, Daddy!”

This was as they rushed off to “secretly” make me breakfast in bed. That was followed by time to fold and put away five (!) baskets of laundry, a trip to Walgreen’s BY MYSELF, and — after some nagging, I’ll admit — a family trip to the art museum.

I got handmade cards, flowers, a phone car charger, the new Fleet Foxes CD, a painted paper fan (Sophie) and duct tape earrings (Annabelle — she made them to resemble a favorite pair I lost). After the museum, we had dinner with my parents at a cool new restaurant and the day ended with a brisk, late-night walk on Tempe Town Lake with one of my BFFs.

I never had time to write that blog post I meant to write, the one about all my mom writer friends, both virtual and live.

At dinner, Annabelle asked, “Mommy, when I grow up, can I take your writing class?”

See? A really wonderful day. And yet last night when I came home and realized those dishes in the sink were all mine, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. Why is that? Why can’t I just revel in a lovely celebration?

Whatever you did Sunday, I hope you reveled in it!