I hurt my family's feelings. That's what happens when you mix brutal honesty with fatigue. Or as we say in my house, "Stand back; she's gonna blow!"

They were planning my Mother's Day. Sweet thought. However, I exercised my veto power.

Should they give me breakfast in bed? I nixed that idea pronto.

I'm usually the first one up in our dark house. When dawn is cracking, so are my knees when my feet hit the floor. I've been doing these "boot-camp" workouts, run by local trainers Shawn and Nadine.

After tossing back a fiber bar and a double shot of Java, I drive to meet other grown-ups for an hour of hard-core fitness.

Shawn, a good Kansan, knows that quitters never win and winners never quit. Dutifully we follow him through a series of jumping jacks, plank push-ups, spiders and all sorts of abdominal S&M. You'd think that New Zealander Nadine ("G'day, mate!") has been here long enough to know that Americans aren't cheerful until their first cup of morning joe or first happy hour cosmo. But no-o-o-o-o-o-o!

Without breaking a sweat, she spreads her cheery goodness like raspberry jam on crusty rolls of body fat. She's like a piston when she thrusts her knees into her chest and back out again over and over. She looks so darn cute when she's doing that I sometimes have to stop to watch her.

Breakfast at sunrise wouldn't work this Mother's Day, I told the family. Took a pass on the home-style French toast and mimosas.

My loved ones then came up with plan B, which, being a Midwestern transplant, I like to call the Annual Mother's Roundup. All across America today, adoring families are rounding up and herding women into banquet halls and restaurants to put on feedbags.

Under one roof, you'll find women who have been on (not to) South Beach, worshipped at the Church of Atkins, and known Craig by her first name, stampeding to the breakfast bar for eggs Benedict, hash browns, cheesy grits, short stacks and champagne. The collective wisdom behind this is to give mom the day off from cooking.

Sweet thought. Except I and other women aren't ready or willing to trade our steel buns for sticky buns. This year, I'm determined to wear a two-piece swimsuit again even if I can't get the bottoms past my knees and have to use the top as a headband.

Patient but frustrated, my family went to the sea of last resorts to deep-fish some gift cards. Would I want one from Williams-Sonoma, Barnes & Noble, Nordstrom? How about a gift certificate for a mani-pedi, facial or massage? Nope.

The family was losing patience. They asked whether I was angry at them and making some passive-aggressive point. I reminded them I was genetically incapable of being both passive and aggressive at the same time. That level of multi-tasking is beyond my expertise.

Just make me a Mother's Day card, I told the family.

Everyone hates when I do this. Like each Christmas when I ask for "peace on earth." Makes them want to do me bodily harm. I can sense it.

Now around Christmas, they ask, "OK, Mom, besides peace on earth, what ELSE do you want?"

I told them for this Mother's Day, I didn't want crumbs on my bedsheets, a reason to do more crunches, or to be surrounded by other overstuffed madonnas. I just wanted some quiet time and the whole day with no commitments to anyone or anything.

I think I broke their hearts. I saw water welling in the corner of a teenage eye.

So I threw out this consolation request: "How about you clean your rooms and try to keep them clean the whole weekend?" I said.

It was then I heard a Seussian voice whisper, "Sure you won't change your mind about that gift card?"

Rhonda Chriss Lokeman (rlokeman@creators.com) is a contributing editor to The Kansas City Star. To find out more about Rhonda Chriss Lokeman and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

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