Dishes and how they are served (and then washed)

I seldom ask for much. It just so happens that when I really want something (of the less tangible variety), my timing doesn't really line up with the universe. This Mother's Day was ok but kind of a let-down. Maybe it's because it's almost that time of month again; maybe it's because my need isn't recognized, or maybe it's because I don't say anything about it. Or maybe it's that I overthink it all. For some reason, I'm reminded of a scene from the movie "The Breakup," where Jennifer Aniston's character yells at Vince Vaughn's: "I want you to want to do the dishes!" and he basically tells her that she's crazy to want that because no one in his right mind actually wants to do the dishes.

Ok, let's start over. This weekend. On Saturday we went to San Antonio to visit my grandmother whose cancer has spread, is undergoing chemo, and dad thinks she won't have another Mother's Day. Grandma and I aren't really close at all, but dad seemed pretty upset about it, and it was his idea that we all go to SA, so off we were, out of mostly duty, to visit and, I guess, just be there. We drove over on Friday night, with Little refusing to sleep the whole way, thus setting a stressful tone to an already less than ideal non-vacation. Paul, of course, had no desire to go there in the first place, so I had to balance my cranky and exhausted toddler and my equally cranky and tired husband all while sporting a happy face and positive attitude. The day went along well and relatively painlessly, but we ran late for dinner and subsequently so did our departure (more cranky husband who had to drive for three hours at nine o'clock at night). Fortunately, Little did fall asleep after a fun day filled with abuelos, boats, and "swimming," so the drive was fine, just exhausting. Home. Bed. New day. Mother's Day. Up. Shower. Little and Paul bring gifts. Lovely. Church. Then out of the blue, Paul loses his patience with Little. Becomes instantly crabby. Little gets crabby too. Lunch. Naptime. I empty the dishwasher, tidy up, unpack, and go to the grocery store. The fact that it is Mother's Day is completely forgotten. I return home to Paul watching a movie, and when it finishes, he is off to the other couch in the other room to sleep and continue to be crabby. All I can think is, why does he have to be crabby on MY day? It's not fair. Waa Waa. I failed to mention that by this time, I've fought hard to hold back tears at least twice throughout the morning. Little wakes. We head to my in-laws' where I still am not being crabby. And husband still is. We visit and eat and Little decides she is done with people and we go home early since she has latched herself to my shoulder and won't leave my arms. Mother's Day? What was that? I think we should just skip it altogether if it's going to be this way every year. I would rather be appreciated and have a pleasant day than be given gifts in the morning and to hell with everything else for the rest of the day. A day off? No dishes? No chores? Everyone in a good mood? Maybe I'll get that on my birthday. Maybe not.

Today, I'm over it (mostly). Tomorrow I'll think about the good parts of the weekend. It's a new day. We move on. Saturday was just another day. Sunday was just another day. We take it as it comes. Some days are good, some not so much.

It would just be nice if the days that are supposed to be special really were.