Nope, I’m not going out for brunch or dinner at a favorite restaurant.
I’m also going to pass on getting dressed and taking in a theatrical performance.
The cast of “Joe Turner’s Come and Gone” playing at the Mark Taper won’t even know I was invited to be there.

Mother’s Day for me will be sleeping until noon, waking up, rolling over, grabbing the book by my bedside and reading until I fall back asleep.

“You haven’t finished that book, yet?” Brandi continually asks in reference to the 900-page masterpiece, “Far From The Tree” that I’ve been plodding through for several months.

“It isn’t a novel; it’s research and it takes time to digest,” is my usual response to her constant nagging. To be truthful, it doesn’t make sense to have the book at bedside because there’s something about this job as a Mom that requires my eyes to close whenever the sheets and the mattress are available.

Maybe one of my offspring will drop by the house and bring a houseplant like they’ve done so often in the past. But I sure hope not.

These pots of green foliage, just like children, are a huge responsibility. Just yesterday, I spent an inordinate amount of time with cotton pads and alcohol removing nasty little bugs from the underside of every tiny leaf on a plant that’s 6 feet tall.

Last year, a very nice friend gave me a huge box of chocolates … No, I think that was for Valentine’s Day … It doesn’t matter much which day it was. I just am too fat for candy and my stomach is too old to tolerate such.

I’m a little ashamed to reveal this side of my personality since Mother’s Day is looked upon as a joyous occasion when we pay homage to the wonderful women who have done so much for their families and for others.

Will any one of my many kids send me a card? I hope not. The last time I was in a stationery store and admired one of those things and turned over to the back where the price was listed, my shriek was so loud I was asked to leave the store (not exactly true).

I’m not going to church to wear white, showing my mother has passed away. I didn’t go on Easter and I don’t go for Christmas, either, because that’s for sure when everyone else shows up.

Speaking of my mother, whatever uncomplimentary words you’ve formed to describe me, please understand my attitude is all her fault.

Those who knew my mother, Bernice Pickett-Smiley, knew her to be a lovely, kind and soft-spoken person, but they never knew she didn’t allow her children to celebrate Mother’s Day — nope, she said no gifts, no cards, no anything.

So, quite unlike the concept of the book I hope to finish today, as an apple, I didn’t fall far from the tree.
Happy Mother’s Day for all who celebrate the traditional way!