Yet again, the holidays tiptoed in on little commercial cat feet and arrived with their typical resounding thud of obligations, retail hysteria, anxiety and diet-busting temptations. Moms particularly bear the brunt of the gift-hunting, package-sending, company-receiving, non-stop baking, card-addressing, timely-RSVPing, classroom-volunteering, recital-watching season. This is hardly a newsflash.
    Every October, I promise myself that this season will be simpler ... more relaxed. But who am I fooling? It’s like joining a gym; each time my commitment is sincere, but before long, one missed day (ill child, cramps, sale at Macy’s) turns into a week, then a month, until the shame and stress about not going outweighs the weight I planned to shed on the Stairmaster.
    Moms need to schedule breaks — especially during the holidays — like pap smears and mammograms. We have to make time. The gift wrapping, unfrosted cupcakes, et al, will wait while we take a load off. Nonetheless, matriarchal martyrs regularly don a super-human persona and unnecessary guilt like underwear and socks. Why does it feel decadent to just sit down?
    Not long ago, I had the opportunity to put my “me time” where my mouth is. Although weekends heaving with soccer and hockey games, meals ordered through speaker boxes, unending birthday parties and last-minute sleepover guests once ruled supreme, a recent Saturday found me home alone. As I contemplated the chores on deck, “I don’t wanna” resonated between my temples like a cranky child’s bedtime rant. It’s not as if I haven’t heard that seemingly juvenile inner voice before, but it’s usually drowned out by a booming, adult, mental to-do list. Not that day.
    In quiet protest, I popped some tea in the microwave and went to find my book — usually reserved for the car (motor running), long lines and/or heavy-lidded wee hours. This is the same book that for weeks I’d been eager to find out whether or not the murderer gets away with his diabolical plan.
    On my way upstairs, I grabbed the “delicates” off the drying rod, swatted a cobweb, adjusted the photograph that chronically shifts from the front door’s perpetual slamming and scooped up two socks, a backpack, football and skateboarding helmet. I put away the abandoned items before halting outside Logan’s room. All six dresser drawers hung precariously open as if ransacked by deranged intruders, and a layer of “things” concealed the wall-to-wall carpeting. The disarray drew me like a mangy, sad-eyed stray — I didn’t want to … but I had to!
    After tidying up, I wrestled the sheets from his unmade bed, picked up the ubiquitous wet towels and returned downstairs to throw the colors into the machine. I tossed a magazine into the recycling bin, which I emptied since I was already there.
    Just then, the microwave’s “beep” reminded me that not only had I forgotten my tea, but also the book!  I reset the timer and scowled at the overstuffed trashcan, and then the mail truck’s idling engine outside distracted me. Robotically, I collected the mail, added it to hubby’s pile o’ stuff and eyed a stack of bills. Surrendering to persistent type-A urging, I paid them.
    Searching for stamps brought me back to the kitchen, where the once friendly, now taunting, “beep” irritated me. I punched the buttons on the microwave harder than necessary to reheat my reheated tea and stomped directly upstairs, not stopping until I located the neglected book on my nightstand. My nightstand — what a mess! I tucked the book under my chin, gathered all evidence of a late-night sweet tooth, switched the light off with my elbow and carefully headed downstairs … again.
    Trying to ignore the mess around the dog’s dish, I set my armful down while the final seconds on the timer dwindled. The finish (rec)line(r) in sight, the washer full of “must hang ups” shut off. Lest I have to repent by ironing later, I attended to the high-maintenance duds, wiped down the microwave and, at last, removed the mug. My entire body smiled as I relished the open book and fairly hot tea. Incomprehensibly, an hour had evaporated since realizing my unexpected solitude.
    Logan’s two-sneaker stampede preceded his standard greeting: “Can you drive me … ?”  And just like that, “me time” vanished faster than crow’s feet on Madonna.
    Must free time for moms always come with a self-imposed price tag? Can’t we ditch the internal struggles, disengage our spring-loaded derrieres and practice reclining during the declining days of 2008? This holiday season, let’s take time to smell the honey ham, potato pancakes and/or peanut soup … since we’re cooking them anyway.