The ancient Greeks first celebrated Mother's Day by having a spring festival. They dedicated the festival to Rhea, the mother of the gods — she was also known as the Great Mother. Apparently, my Greek husband knew nothing about this tradition: "There's so much hype about Mother's Day. Do you even remember what you did last year?"

"Yes, I remember what I did last year. I cleaned out the garage and worked in the yard while you played golf. You and the kids took me out to dinner at Eat-'N'-Beat It Buffet."

Gone are the days when my kids crept into my bedroom on Mother's Day morning. Their hot breaths hovered over my face as they studied me as if I were a folkloric creature.

"Do you think she's dead?"

"Nah. Her stomach is moving up and down."

"Let's wake her up," my courageous son said.

"I'm not gonna wake her up," said his older sister.

I opened my eyes to fresh yellow tulips pressed underneath my nose. "The flowers are beautiful," I exclaimed.

In unison they sang, "We picked them from Mrs. Casey's yard."

On a tray, a Dr. Seuss inspired breakfast of blue eggs and ham. "We're out of green food coloring," they said sadly. With my children cuddled close to me, I ate breakfast in bed and looked at the Sunday paper's toy ads circled with red crayon highlighting their favorite toys.

I was Rhea the Great Mother. All day long, my husband and children waited on me. They tiptoed around me taking a nap. My husband served me wine while I lay on the couch reading the latest People magazine. My children fought over who would massage my feet, and paint my nails and toenails. I settled the argument by saying, "Each of you can have a hand and a foot."

Taped to the refrigerator would be dozens of watercolor drawings of me standing in fields of smiling flowers — my legs never looked so thin. My children wrote verses like: "Mothers are for cuddling you when you have to weep. Mothers are for covering you when you fall asleep. I love you so much. You ROCK!"

How did I go from Hallmark moments to a scratchy voice over a loudspeaker announcing: "Copuulus party of five? Your table is ready." Only minutes later, I'd watch my family scatter like ants, leaving me alone at the table still chewing my food.

My kids are older now and have their own agendas. Even our little one whined, "When is Mother's Day over? I want to go to Maggie's house to play." No doubt Maggie's mom was sitting alone at a dinner table eating.

It was time for me to seize the day! I had an obligation to protect my Mother's Day rights and liberties. But first, I needed a Grand Poobah. Someone I could put in charge of the festivities. Who better to do this but the man literally responsible for my Mother's Day?

"This year, I'm having a weekend-long Mother's Day festival," I announced to my husband.

"Do whatever you want," he replied. Take a weekend trip with your girlfriends. It's your day."

Oh, he would like that, I thought. Turn my Mother's Day weekend into a Father's Day weekend of golf, poker, cigars and barbecue. Doesn't he realize that Mother's Day means payback time?

"I'm not going anywhere, and neither is anyone else."

"Gulp."

That week, I posted on the refrigerator a tentative list of mandatory festival activities.

Family events begin Thursday at midnight (inspired by Father's Day) and ends Sunday, May 11, at midnight.

A weekend packed with games, food and more: Bedmaking. Folding clothes like a pro. Weed pulling contests and lawn mower races. Followed by a tree planting ceremony in honor of Mimi, the Great Mother. Refreshments include blended margaritas for Mom. Followed by a specially prepared dinner at El Restaurant de la Familia. All electronics will be turned off during this time. Absolutely, no one leaves the dinner table, not even for a so-called pottybreak, until Mom finishes all of her dinner. The chef and his helpers are responsible for kitchen cleanup.

Note: Festival activities are subject to change at any given moment at the discretion of the Great Mother.

In Roman days, my Italian ancestors referred to Mother's Day as Hilaria — derived from the word hilaris. This year, Mother's Day will be just that.

To find out more about Mimi Kopulos and read her past columns, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

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