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Letters From the Home Front

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As I write this, it is Mother's Day. It's that time-honored day when the adoring children call back to the nest (or, in my case, tweet, text and tag) to share their love and gratitude in a conversation that goes something like this: "Happy Mother's Day. Love you. OK, bye."

Then, there is the special Hallmark moment, of course, when husband of nearly a decade showers me with flowers, candy and a commemorative breakfast, which only leaves me thinking that it's too bad the flowers don't match the color scheme -- and something about how much more special I will be tomorrow having consumed a 4-trillion-calorie Western breakfast with a one-pound chocolate buttercream chaser.

All the reverie aside, the best thing about Mother's Day is arguably the free pass to attempt some "me" time. Once we have dispensed with the rituals, I know I have permission on this one occasion to unapologetically do whatever it is I would like to do.