Dear Diary,

Ah, Mother’s Day. The one magical day a year when moms everywhere are pampered with breakfast in bed, thoughtful gifts, and spa-level serenity… unless you’re me, in which case it starts at 4:15 AM with a child vomiting what looked like ink from a cursed printer.

Turns out blue cake frosting does not sit well with a six-year-old’s digestive tract. Add mandarin oranges, pineapple, and maple syrup (Mom’s signature “just toss it all in” recipe), and voilà—blueberry nightmare stew, all over the bedding, floor, pajamas, and my soul.

After cleaning up the smurf-splatter apocalypse and calming poor Devon, I somehow found the energy to shower, do full makeup, and wear a dress that actually zips. We went to church. I even brought Mom and all the non-blue kids.

Devon gave my flowerpot to ”Grandma”, and Mom acted like she just won a Nobel. It was cute, really. I wasn’t expecting anything from Seth, but there’s a special kind of sting that comes from watching someone else get your Mother’s Day glory while you’re still wiping frosting from your carpet.

I made two full meals—one with soup, because apparently I hate myself—and watched as the kids complained, Mom turned up her nose, and Kitty double-dipped a spoon back into the pot. It was a team effort in culinary rejection.

The grand finale? Cleaning it all up alone while Mom napped off her frosting high and everyone else mysteriously vanished into the woodwork.

But hey—no one ended up in the ER, nothing caught fire, and Mom didn’t accuse me of being a witch this year, so we’re counting this one as a win.

Maybe next year I’ll gift myself a solo beach weekend and pretend my phone doesn’t exist.

—Bri

This diary entry was written by fictional character Bri Brigg
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