I’m perfectly happy with a very low key celebration of Mother’s Day. I would rather have my family show their appreciation for me by emptying the dishwasher once a week rather than feel obligated to take me out for an expensive brunch once a year.

And while I’m on the topic of what I would like for Mother’s Day, I would love to open the cabinet under the sink and discover that the once full trash can is now empty. Do kids think that mothers possess some kind of magic so that the lid on the big gray garbage can will open only for us? I guess it’s the same kind of magical powers that makes it possible for only moms to put a new roll of toilet paper on the holder.

So those are the kind of surprises that I would love to get regardless of whether or not it’s Mother’s Day. But there is one supposed indulgence that no one ever, ever, has to give me on Mother’s Day or the other 364 days of the year: breakfast in bed.

Eating in bed sounds only slightly less appealing to me than eating in the shower. Both are places that I don’t really look my best – not that I always have to have my makeup on and the frizz flat-ironed out of my hair to be able to enjoy eating – but generally, I prefer to have applied deodorant within the last 18 hours before sharing a meal with someone.

Plus there’s the whole logistics of eating in bed. Who wants crumbs in their sheets? And eating in bed isn’t particularly conducive to conversation. While mom juggles the tray on her lap, everybody else probably has to sit uncomfortably on the bed. Unless you’ve got a Tempur-Pedic mattress, you had better watch that coffee and OJ bouncing sloshing around every time someone sits down or gets up.

You may have seen the TV commercial for Philadelphia Cream Cheese in which the husband wakes up his wife (at least we think that’s who it is; wedding rings aren’t evident) while a faux indie song plays in the background. Of course, she doesn’t wake up with her hair going in 16 different directions and there aren’t any creases in her skin from the sheets. The couple cozies up while slathering an inch of cream cheese on bagels and teasing each other with strawberries dipped in the creamy white stuff.

Doesn’t look like fun to me. In fact, it makes me cringe. Let me take a shower, brush my teeth and put a couple of layers of fabric between me and the outside world.

I’ll take my cream cheese and bagels at the table, thank you.