Mother’s Day is tomorrow and I still haven’t given much thought to what I would like to do. Truthfully, I haven’t even bothered to think about it because there are already such strict parameters on my ideal Mother’s Day (the inability to teleport is just one example). But what if there were no such parameters? If I let myself dream outside of my limitations, what would my ideal Mother’s Day be like?
Well, let me just tell you.
I would awake after a full night of uninterrupted sleep in my own room, but it would be an updated version of my room, complete with artful bohemian furniture, fresh bedsheets (with a thread count of 800 or higher) and zero fan blade dust. I would be wearing one of those epic flowy nightgowns from the 1970s, made of silk from only the most ethically raised silkworms, silkworms that are “free range” and “grass fed” or whatever and live in some kind of silkworm palace where all of their little silkworm needs are met, and in their spare time they are like, “Well, let’s make this silk now because it is just so pleasing to do so and we are so free.” I would remain in my silken nightgown for the better part of the morning, sipping coffee with frothed heavy cream from the world’s most tenderly milked mama cows, watching helpful birds fly in and out of the bedroom window to make my bed and to do other useful tasks such as delivering me my toothbrush.
After spending the early hours completely alone drinking coffee, reading and journaling, I would join my family for a proper breakfast of eggs Benedict with extra hollandaise on the side. And corned beef hash and biscuts-and-gravy on the side, small servings of course. Side plates. And maybe a sprouted bagel with caviar, too. My daughters would already be brushed and dressed and endlessly charming at the table and I would smugly say to myself, “What fine daughters I have and what a fine mother I must be!” And then they would clear their plates and immediately become engrossed in a gentle game of imaginative play so that Tim and I could linger at the breakfast table to discuss the idiot genius of R. Kelly’s Trapped in the Closet for 20 solid minutes.
Isn’t there some Disney movie where the female character walks and flowers grow behind her with every footstep? Instead of flowers, my every step would create harmony and cleanliness in my path: the cream cheese finger prints would miraculously vanish from my sliding glass doors, the stainless steel sink would sparkle like new, the princess-themed toddler underwear on the candelabra would fly into the already spinning washing machine.
T Bone Burnett would be there, but he would be wearing an invisibility cloak so that his presence didn’t creep anyone out. Like an invisible musical wizard, he would curate just the right soundtrack to every passing moment of our brunch, playing sultry folk songs that make spreading the butter and pouring the fresh juice feel infinitely more meaningful. We would all gaze at each other lovingly at all the right moments.
Eventually I would change out of my resplendent nightgown into some equally glamorous beachy kaftan that only a highly successful professional writer based in Sarasota would wear. I would bid my husband and children adieu without guilt, knowing that there were endless seaweed snacks in the cupboard and a safe, saltwater infinity pool in the backyard for them to play in. (Michael Phelps would be the on-duty lifeguard.)
T Bone Burnett would at this point shapeshift into an intuitive car radio but he would have this deep knowledge of my truest self: he would know that I really needed to really cut loose while alone in the car with no one to judge me, so he would make every station play the right Jay Z song, or maybe some stirring 90s Reba McEntire country ballad that I had totally forgotten about until T Bone hand-selected it just for me.
I would then spend my day in bookshops and art galleries, speaking and thinking very little, making small purchases if necessary, or not at all. Since teleportation would in fact be an option for me in this fantasy, maybe I would even go to the Louvre! I could pretend to be lost on the way to the museum and ask every French person in sight, “Excusez-moi, where is the Looooooooooorve?”
Whenever I became tired of being blissfully alone in cafes and other sophisticated venues, I would head to my timely appointment with a wizened Gandolf-esque Priest from Northern Ireland, who would gleefully offer me practical advice for living out the next forty or so years of my life. He would reaffirm to me that yes, there is suffering in this world, but ultimately life is good and we are allowed to enjoy it. He would write me a permission slip that said something along the lines of: Chelsea Clarkson is allowed to have an excellent time today. Signed, Father Gandalf.
At this point I would return to a clean and empty house to bathe alone surrounded by beeswax candles. While soaking in the tub, I would effortlessly dream up several brilliant new blog post ideas. Maybe I would even dream up a book idea! Then I would spend a full hour preparing myself for a date with
Jon Hamm my husband Tim. (Jon Hamm is always sweaty and drunk anyway.) I’m not really sure where Tim would be during this part of the fantasy but whatever: this is my dream sequence, lets not concern ourselves with minor details. When Tim finally arrives to pick me up for our date, I would say something like, “My darling, where are the children?” And he would tell me that they were playing contentedly with Whoopi Goldberg in her role as Corina in the 1994 film Corina, Corina except that this modern post-millennium Corina was well-paid, happy and also trilingual. (And obviously I would not be recently deceased and there wouldn’t be that whole romantic subplot between Tim and Whoopi Goldberg because that would be wack as hell and completely ruin Mother’s Day.)
Tim would look more dapper than ever and take me to a restaurant I have never even heard of before and it would be like that scene in Gone with the Wind when Scarlett and Rhett honeymoon in New Orleans and Scarlett orders every dessert plate she sees and then they have this harmless little laugh about telling all their old friends to go to the Devil.
Our beautiful evening would end with a bottle of wine and perhaps a romantic rickshaw ride through a historic neighborhood. We would come home to sleeping children, maybe sit with our feet in the pool and talk about Grove Ladder Farm’s newest and most successful venture: red meat. “Imagine this, my beautiful wife,” Tim would say, massaging my hand. “Three deep freezers in our garage. Full. Of. Steak. Steak, for you. Steak, forever and for always.” It would be exactly like that scene when the Beast gives Belle a library except my beloved husband would give me a library of steak.
And since I can think of nothing on this glorious earth that could ever top library of steak, we will leave the rest of my Mother’s Day story untold, dear reader. Here is to you and your mama.