Today's my day, and I just want to feel appreciated!

If you're reading this and slapping yourself on the forehead and doing your best Homer Simpson impersonation ("Doh!") -- it's too late. You've forgotten Mother's Day again and I don't care how expensive that last minute bouquet is, Mom is never going to forget that you forgot.

At least, this Mom isn't. I treasure these moments‚ the forgotten Mother's Day gifts, the birthday present that "accidently got left in Nashville," the Valentine cards that were more raunchy than romantic, and the many, many times they never even noticed my hair cut ... (Not the color. They aren't allowed to notice any changes in color.) I stockpile the errors, the emotional faux pas, like a survivalist stockpiling homemade jerky and for the very same reason. Some day, that jerky is going to come in handy and so are the little mistakes my guys have made. Guilt is great leverage.

"Mom? Can I go to the movies with (Insert name of girlfriend of the hour here)?"

"Sure, honey. Bring me my purse."

"What purse?"

"The nice brown one I asked for my birthday and didn't get."

"Ah. Oops."

Don't think I'm completely mercenary. The fact is, usually when I get asked what I want for whatever Hallmark/Wall Street-inspired holiday is coming up, I can't think of anything. Money is tight for us right now and the last thing I need is for them to spend a bucket load of money on something I don't need. I -- like every mom in the world -- just want to feel appreciated. It's bad enough we have to designate a day to make everyone say they appreciate their mothers, but when they can't even bother to do it then? It only makes us feel worse.

I love the excuse my husband gave one year.

"I forgot."

Apparently, he wasn't anywhere near a newspaper, television, radio, computer, billboards, notes on the refrigerator door or carrier pigeons that week, because that was the only way he could have not known it was coming up.

This year, I asked for a clean den. It isn't going to happen. What will happen is that my youngest will bring me something he made in school or with his godmother, who looks after him after school. I will treasure it forever. My husband will have a card and maybe some designer chocolate -- and a last-minute azalea bought at Food Lion while I was still in bed watching CBS Sunday Morning. My oldest might -- just might -- call tonight and, after he tells me what forms he needs filled out for his scholarship and asks how much money can I send him, he might -- just might -- remember its Mother's Day and say something.

My middle child is ticked off at me right now because he got grounded for breaking curfew so he will either do nothing to "punish" me or he'll overkill and actually clean up the den to buy his way out of the doghouse. That's how I got my yard mowed last week.

I love being a mom. It's a crash course in manipulation, reconciliation, aggravation, frustration, irritation, consternation, complication and love.

There are times when I wonder what my life would have been like without kids. Would I be sitting on a beach in De Islands, mon? Would I be takin' a wee stroll on the green hills of Erin? Would I be living an intense punctuation free staccato jack kerouac beatnik life in a New York garret?

Every time I wander down this trail of thinking, I come to the same conclusion.

Don't know. Don't care. Happy here and now.

Despite the manipulation, reconciliation, aggravation, frustration, irritation, consternation, complication -- the love makes up for it all. Scott, the oldest, came home for one night this week to pick up his girlfriend. (Oh, sure, for HER he makes the trip ...) He'd worked for 10 hours, driven for three, and when he saw his 10-year-old brother, Buzz, struggling with science homework about simple machines, he jumped right in to help. Ben, the middle child in every possible way (the out-too-late-with-older-woman Ben), is also the one who always knows when I need a hug or a pep talk. Buzz has hugs that can cure all ills, even grouchy moms.

I won't mind if they forget Mother's Day. OK, I'm lying. I'll probably sulk a little bit and wheedle a steak dinner out of it. But I don't have to have Hallmark tell me on cardboard that I'm appreciated. The way my kids show their appreciation is by being the young men I raised them to be. Kind, courteous, compassionate and helpful.

And, yeah, a little forgetful -- but they get that from their dad.

-- Mary Reeves is a staff writer for the Times-Gazette. She can be reached at (931) 684-1200, ext. 215, or by e-mail at mreeves@t-g.com.