Don’t get me wrong—I love them more than anything.
Sticky fingers, loud laughs, tantrums and all. They’re my whole world. But if I’m being brutally honest? All I want for Mother’s Day is to not be around them.
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Not for the whole day. Just a few hours. Six would be a dream. Three would be enough to hear myself think again.
Because right now? I can’t remember the last time I peed without someone knocking on the door. I eat dinner standing up, I fold laundry with a toddler clinging to my leg, and my “breaks” are usually just me hiding in the bathroom scrolling my phone while someone yells, “MOMMY! SHE TOOK MY TOY!”
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And don’t even get me started on the “Mother’s Day surprises.” Crumbs in the bed, soggy toast on a paper towel, and glitter everywhere—for weeks.
Sweet? Yes. Exhausting? Also yes.
But that’s the thing about motherhood. You love them unconditionally, and you wouldn’t change it for the world. Still, there’s a part of you that desperately craves some time to just breathe. To be yourself, not just someone’s mother. To have a moment where you’re not responsible for someone else’s needs, tantrums, or constant demands.
I’ve been a mother for six years now, and I wouldn’t trade my kids for anything. But the truth is, the idea of Mother’s Day—the one day a year when moms are supposed to feel extra special—just doesn’t resonate with me in the way it’s supposed to. I know some moms love the homemade gifts and the sweet breakfast in bed. But for me? The idea of spending an entire day surrounded by sticky fingers and glittery crafts just feels… overwhelming.
I was lying in bed a week before Mother’s Day, trying to ignore the overwhelming weight of exhaustion when I heard the unmistakable sound of little feet running down the hallway. Then came the gentle knock on my bedroom door.
“Mama? Are you awake?”
I smiled, though I felt like I was about to collapse. It was Lily, my oldest. She was five, and had the kind of energy that could keep a whole circus running. When she saw my face, her expression softened, and she crawled onto the bed next to me, snuggling under the covers.
“Mom, I was thinking…” she started, her little voice serious, “for Mother’s Day, I want to make you something special. Like a surprise! You’ll love it. It’s going to be awesome!”
I nodded, grateful that she was trying to do something nice, but all I could think about was how I was barely functioning. It was the same every year—Mother’s Day turned into an obligation rather than a celebration. The day that should have been a chance to relax and recharge always turned into a whirlwind of events I hadn’t planned for. I loved my kids more than anything, but sometimes I just wanted a break.
The guilt started creeping in. How could I feel this way? How could I wish for space when all they wanted was to show their love? They didn’t know that what I needed was simply time to sit down with a book, or to drink a cup of coffee without it going cold before I could finish it.
I decided I needed to get a handle on my emotions before the big day arrived. I told myself that, yes, I needed a break. But I also needed to appreciate the moments when my kids tried to show me their love, even if it was in the form of glitter-filled disasters and soggy toast.
But the truth was, my thoughts kept drifting back to the idea of a few hours—just a few hours to be alone. To listen to the silence, to not be needed for a few minutes. I started planning in my head how I might carve out some time. I could go for a walk, I thought. Maybe visit a park alone, or just sit in the car with the windows rolled down and enjoy a little peace.
When Mother’s Day arrived, I was determined to make the best of it. The kids were already buzzing with excitement, running around the house with homemade cards in hand. My husband, Mark, who was always great about supporting me in every way, was cooking breakfast. I was already preparing myself for the inevitable chaos—crumbs, spilled juice, toys scattered everywhere—but I told myself to just let go of the frustration. I’d get my break eventually.
I didn’t even realize what had happened until the moment I stepped out of the house.
The kids had made me a “surprise” breakfast, which, naturally, involved a lot of pancakes, a mountain of whipped cream, and a flood of syrup. The table was covered in sticky fingerprints, and there were glittery hearts stuck to the sides of the plates. But as they handed me the “gift” of a pile of wet napkins and syrup-smeared cards, I had to laugh.
“Mommy, we love you!” Lily shouted, her face beaming. “Happy Mother’s Day!”
I smiled, truly touched. The kids didn’t care about the mess—they just cared about making me feel loved. And in that moment, it didn’t matter that I was covered in glitter or that I had syrup in my hair. What mattered was that these tiny human beings, who depended on me for everything, were showing me how much they cared in their own special way.
Then Mark surprised me. He walked up with a gift—a small box wrapped in simple paper. I didn’t expect anything from him; we’d both agreed not to buy gifts, just to spend the day together. I opened it cautiously and found a simple bracelet inside—silver, elegant, and understated.
“I figured you could use something just for you,” he said, giving me a knowing smile.
That moment—the one where I was surrounded by chaos but also felt deeply loved—was when everything shifted. I realized that I had been so focused on needing a break that I hadn’t fully appreciated the people who were already trying to give me a moment of peace in their own way. Maybe I didn’t need a whole day to myself. Maybe what I really needed was to lean into the love they were offering, even if it wasn’t exactly what I had imagined.
As the day went on, I took small moments for myself. I stepped outside for a walk while Mark watched the kids. I sat in the car for a few minutes, rolling down the windows and breathing deeply. I realized that, yes, I still needed those breaks—but it didn’t mean I couldn’t also embrace the moments of chaos, the ones that reminded me how much I was loved.
Later, as I tucked Lily into bed that night, she gave me a final gift—a drawing of our family, with big hearts all around it. “This is for you, Mom,” she said. “I hope you feel special today.”
And I did. I did feel special. Maybe not in the quiet, peaceful way I had imagined, but in the way only motherhood can offer—the messy, beautiful, imperfect love of a family.
That night, as I sat on the couch with Mark, I realized that the key to finding balance wasn’t in seeking solitude, but in learning to embrace the moments that came my way. Sometimes the love we need most isn’t in grand gestures or perfectly quiet moments, but in the little things—the sticky fingers, the laughter, the chaos, and the shared experiences that bind us together.
I finally understood that it wasn’t about being alone for hours on end. It was about finding peace in the chaos, in the love that surrounded me, even when it felt like too much. Because that’s what motherhood is—it’s messy, exhausting, and overwhelming, but it’s also beautiful, rewarding, and filled with love.
So, the next time you feel overwhelmed or wish for a moment to yourself, take a deep breath. Remember that the love you’re giving and receiving is what truly matters, even in the moments when it feels like everything is falling apart.
And if you know someone who could use a reminder that motherhood isn’t about perfection, but about love, share this post. Maybe it’ll bring some peace to their day, just like it did for me.
Thank you for reading, and don’t forget to like and share if you think someone else could benefit from this little piece of advice.
