My personal celebration of the most hallowed relationship known to humankind began last night, about 8:30 p.m. That was when I set out to get me a piece of The Cakers, who had been sent upstairs to get into Jammies a good 20 minutes before.

A yell up the stairs just five minutes earlier had brought a reassuring response that the girl would soon be standing before me, donning pink jams and a face free of chocolate pudding residue ::Oreo. To die for. No cookie crumbs. just black chocolate and vanilla pudding parfait. Mmmm. Need some now.:: But no.

When I arrived at the top of the stairs I was greeted by a butt-nekkid girl, with washcloth in hand and guilt in face.

What are you doing?

Nothingk. ::She's at that developmental phase of over-enunciation.::

Why aren't you ready for bed?

I was washing.

What's that smell?

Nothingk.

You smell terrible.

I used your bafume.

I don't have any bafume that causes respiratory distress.

I'll show you.

So we pad down the hallway to my room, where she shows me the collector's decanter of Avon's Sweet Honesty that I've owned since 1975. It's a birdcage and she's been fascinated by it since early toddlerhood.

Then we have the little talk, again, about touching mommy's stuff without permission and how we'll have to make a new rule about her not being allowed into mommy's room if she can't follow the rules, and dang girl, how you stank...Prompting her to burst into spontaneous flames of caterwaul. Before sweeping her up in a comfort hug, I milk the moment by telling her to remember this bad feeling next time she's thinking about being naughty. Pouting a lower lip that appears to be channelling Ms. Jolie, she nods and agrees to go straight to bed.

12:15 a.m.: I'm getting ready for bed when my husband's alarm goes off. Hmmm. I wonder how that happened? Not.

5:00 a.m.: Cat is crying to go out. She was out when we went to bed, so the college boy must have let her in, after being told to leave her outside when he comes home at night (or technically wee wee morning) at least 14 gazillionteemth times. Just last week.

My husband gets up to toss the cat and comes back to bed with a report that my son is playing video games in the living room. He then he wonders aloud why couldn't he let the cat out? I don't know. I say. Maybe he's suffered some kind of paralysis or brain damage. I'll check it out first thing in the morning. Having gotten a little worked up over that conversation, I had some trouble falling back to sleep.

But I do. Fall back to sleep. Only to be harshly reawakened by my alarm clock going off at 6:00 a.m. Hmmm. I wonder how that happened? Not. I guess I shouldn't be too mad. I did get fair warning, at 12:15.

While waiting for the adrenaline rush to settle, I hear my boy make a trip up, then back down the stairs and I start to feel a little agitated. Since I'm pretty much "up" from the recent heart alarm, I go downstairs to have an early morning Mother's Day chat, in which I tell the manchild that the keeping of Elvis the Vampire hours ain't gonna fly here. We're working folk. Need sleep. Although he tries to make it into an argument, we both know that there is none. I go back to bed.

7:00 am: Cheddar runs downstairs like he means business and my husband follows him down. Fifteen minutes later, husband returns to bed with the news that Cheddar didn't make it and peed all over the entryway carpeting. Since I'm a quick study of rhythmic slumber and this particular transgression was not related to any direct spawn of mine, I fall back to sleep straight away.

8:00 a.m.: Barely showing a blip on my Sleepdar, The Cakers wakes up and goes downstairs with daddy.

8:35 a.m.: I awaken to The Cakers crying "Mah-Meee!" downstairs. Because calling for me is her typical response to a tongue lashing from daddy, I figure it's all under control and doze off again. A couple minutes later, the dog barks in his watchdog voice, which is weird if my husband is down there.

So I head downstairs to investigage, and am greeted by a teary-eye Cakers who promptly tattles on daddy for going to the store for Mother's Day wrapping paper, without feeding her breakfast.And she's really hungry. So I pour her a bowl of Crackle and Pop. ::We were fresh out of Snap as it had been well spent earlier, on my last nerve.::

Back to bed. But no sleep. Three minutes after I fed the Cakers, I hear my husband come home. Knowing that they were were planning to serve me breakfast in bed,I was now a wide awake prisoner in my own bed. After the grueling night of the Anti-Sleep, this particular entrapment feels cruelly ironic.

Anyway. When the goods finally arrived I was a pleased and pleasant customer. After tasting a sample of each item, I told my husband and daughter that being the Mutha of this finely bedraggled family was truly reward enough. Although a little nerve pill cocktail would have been nice, I sidebar to husband. He laughs.

While the adoration and breakfast in bed was a sweet treat, the best so far this day has been having the last couple of hours to myself, to write this Mother Daze story. ::And yeah, I know I should sharing this day with loved ones, but for some reason, even though it's still early, I feel like I've already put in a full day.::

Happy Mother's Day everyone.
May all your nerve snaps be tight.

P.S. I apologize for all the grammos, particularly regarding the random mixing of tenses but I'm ree-ree tired and feeling a bit fuzzy about the head. Like a hangover, without the hang.