I was annoyed on Mother's Day. This is not a sentiment one admits out loud, and yet I was. In self defense I had reasons, though there were twice as many reasons to be grateful, had I been willing to acknowledge them. I did not feel like a facsimile of either Mother Teresa or Florence Nightingale, but all day people greeted me as if I was. 

 

Ben and I had a kerfuffle, and I could not manage to rise above it. So I went to one of my jobs early. Being somewhere where I knew my task and could perform it without fanfare seemed safe. It turned out that of the five students signed up for the class, only one showed up. I used that to concoct fantasies about the wonderful brunches those girls were enjoying with their mothers, the ones who were not annoyed. It turned out to be a sweet way to get to know that girl better than I can when my attention is divided. She made me laugh. She finished a neck pillow for her brother. The one who teases her. 

 

When I got home, there was a Ben sized apology on my desk. That manifests as a corner of the piece of cake he brought home from church. The service I mostly missed because I was busy being grumpy. I accepted the apology, though I did not want to eat the dessert that was rather banged up from being in his hands on the way home. The ride in which we did not speak. 

 

The next day I went to my favorite bakery, and of the seven people there, three women hesitantly confessed to being ornery on Mother's Day. Which made those feelings obsolete.