The Full Mommy

My husband asked me, and quite sincerely I know, what I wanted for Valentine's day. "Really," he said. "What do you want?" I'm sure he was looking for reality here, like, "Oh, honey, a nice box of chocolates." Or "some pretty flowers?" Valentine's, after all, is all about issuing the standard love fair, cards, treats, maybe a dinner out, kisses, candies.

I, actually, have a slightly different wish list.

First, I would like to sleep in. Past seven a.m. I'm thinking maybe nine would be nice. Then I'd like to go to a yoga class. After that, eat a breakfast I don't cook and don't clean up. I'd like a massage--that lasts a few hours (and I don't mean erotic. Give me deep tissue!). Post-massage, I'd like a nap. Then, perhaps, when I wake up, I'll be willing to accept a few tokens, the requisite card, the daisies, the heart-shaped box of chocolates.

I want only to spend time with my children when they are happy. I don't want to wash out any poopy cloth diapers. I want the house picked up by someone other than me. For that matter, I want it cleaned, top to bottom. In the evening, I want dinner out. I want a margarita. I want a big, fat piece of chocolate cake. I don't want to have to worry about the children while I'm eating. I want all guilt to be removed. All calories also.

At home, I want the clock to turn backwards so I still have several hours of time in which to read, in a pair of new, cottony-soft, silky-feeling, fleecy-warm pajamas. And maybe play a few games with the hubby. I want to fall asleep easily. I want to sleep without waking up. I don't want to have a single anxious thought. And for that matter, no orphans anywhere. I want everyone to have a mother. A nice mother. Who buys them a cheesy Valentine's day card. And while we're at it, peace in the Middle East. And the Central South. And the bottom North. And the Upper West.

Hey, it is Valentine's Day. And didn't he ask me what I wanted?

Honey? Are you listening?