Mother's "Day"? Seriously? Please. We deserve at least a weekend.

Truthfully, I feel that Mother's Day should be more like Hanukkah, stretching out for an entire week with much love and many presents being showered down on us for 7 days straight. I know that is pushing it. I'll settle for tacking on Saturday.

Why add Saturday? Because this is the day we should get to our damn selves. I am talking about an ACTUAL DAY OFF.

Us Mommies will wake up, and say goodbye, and you won't see us until 9 p.m. Where will we be, you query? Oh, probably curled up on a park bench somewhere, sleeping peacefully, just enjoying the fact that no one is asking us for anything. Or maybe we'll be at Borders, actually reading the ENTIRE inside flap of a new release we've been eyeing. After that, you might find us enjoying a latte, instead of cleaning up a chocolate milk spill at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.

When you see us driving, we won't be yelling at anyone in the back seat to just sit down and shut up for a minute. Oh, and we won't be taking the mini van or the SUV. We'll be driving "Dad's car" and we will be enjoying that fresh-car smell that you just can't achieve when you are hauling around sweaty kids and fast food, and noise.

If we appear to be singing while driving with the windows down and the wind in our hair, it won't be because we are listening to KidZBop XVII. It will be because we are listening to Justin Timberlake and letting our minds wander.

Later, we might be in line for a movie, and you can bet your sweet ass it won't be an animated feature. It will absolutely be a romantic comedy or a foreign film with English subtitles, or something where Colin Farrell takes his shirt off. We might even get a whole box of Junior Mints all to ourselves. Once we finish the Junior Mints, we may crack open the Whoppers. No calorie counting on Mother's Day weekend.

After we have our fill of shirtless Colin and the credits begin to roll, we'll head on over to Macy's, where we will not be buying Mom jeans or cargo pants. We'll be buying a white strapless sundress, new sandals (with an actual heel), and a new tube of lipstick that is not shrink-wrapped to a piece of cardboard and punched with a hole at the top.

Once we have prettied ourselves up in our new duds, we'll probably meet our girlfriends - also mothers - for lunch. Once at the restaurant, it will really get fun! We won't be subject to blank stares from the 16 year old hostess who doesn't know what the hell to do with our strollers, and whether or not children "count" as people when algebraically calculating table size! We won't be stuck in the back of the restaurant at the shittiest table possible by the bathrooms and the kitchen and the bus station so that we don't "disturb" the other customers!

When we are handed our menus, we won't be receiving 3 crayons bundled together with the world's crappiest rubber band. We won't get a placemat we can color on. Oh no. We will get a drink coaster, and a Cadillac Margarita with a big ole sidecar of Grand Marnier, and possibly the run down of the daily specials. Daily Specials, I said!! When is the last time anyone bothered to tell us what those are??

Once we order for ourselves, we will slowly sip our drinks and enjoy an entire adult conversation, without being interrupted even once to take someone to the restroom or to clean up an elbowed glass of ice water.

Once the food arrives - dare I say it? (I am becoming giddy at the thought!) We will simply pick up our fork, and begin to eat. The food will be hot! It will be the first hot meal we've had since realizing stretch marks are as much a reality as breathing.

We will eat, chat, and maybe order a coffee and dessert without "handling" anyone suffering any type of physical side effect, including (but not limited to): hyperactivity, loss of sleep/forefeited nap time, and/or sugar-coma. If the check takes forever to come, we won't feel like a passenger frantically trapped in steerage aboard the sinking Titanic. We'll just sip our coffee, pick at our cheesecake, and chat a while longer, until the server brings it over.

We'll pay, and we'll leave, and when we look back, the area under the table won't look like a solid waste treatment plant. Not a cheerio or busted crayon in sight. No one will cast us a sideways glance as we struggle to balance packages and car seats and strollers, backing out of the restaurant, opening the door with our asses because no one steps in to do it for us. Nope. We'll just put our sunglasses on, pull out our keys, and leave the restaurant.

Next up? Manicures and pedicures. More shopping. Maybe another drink somewhere. No complaining, No looking at watches to see how close it is to "pickup time." Bliss.

Later, we will think about heading on home, and while we will feel very much like Cinderella at 11:59 p.m., we'll know it is time. Hopefully as we pull into our dirveways, there will not be smoke or too much noise pouring out of the upstairs windows.

The next day will be Sunday, and we'll love that too. Hugs and slippers and burned pancakes and home-made cards are the stuff that traditional Mother's Days are made of, after all. We wouldn't trade any of that, not for anything in the world. But as we're "relaxing" while cleaning up sticky syprup from the counter top and "taking it easy" while loading the kids into the car and waiting to go to Grandma's house, we'll smile, and we'll be okay with wearing cargo pants on Mother's Day. The white sun dress will be waiting patiently in the closet until next year. Too bad Colin Farrell can't be in there, too.