Dear Family. I love you. I do. Truly. And so tomorrow, that one day out of 365 (0.27% of the year if you’ve been doing your math homework) I want you to know that it’s not about you. It’s about me. This doesn’t mean I don’t love you, we’ve already discussed that I do — it means that I also love me. So here’s how I’d like it to go down.

Don’t wake me up. Don’t do it. I am woken up every single morning to an alarm to wake you up, or to get to church, or by the sound of the blender or an argument over cereal. But not today. Today I shall awaken when I please. Because 0.27%.

Knock on the bedroom door. I’m confident you can do it, and when – and only when – I answer, you may come in with your cards and art projects you’ve been trying to hide from me for two weeks. I am here for all of it and the snuggles and the whole shebang, and I will love it. If you’re feeling wild you can even bring me my smoothie — in my favorite cup with the lid and my favorite straw. But no, I will not share it with you. Not today.

We are not going to rush out to church. You guys are welcome to go with Dad, but I’ll be staying here. Today I am going to spend quiet time with God at home, and it’ll be ok. I expect He/She understands the importance of this better than even I do.

After that, I want you all to go to Grammy’s. I want you to bring her all the hugs and all the love and make her feel all kinds of special because that is what GRANDmothers love. GRANDmothers. Because they don’t have to do all the argument breaking-up and lunch packing and dinner making and homework helping and book reading and doctor taking and laundry and cleaning and magic making and all the other things that I do willingly and mostly-lovingly the other 364 days. She will love it. Take her to lunch. Stay all day. Play. Make a mess and then clean it up. Laugh and make noise and memories and love. All the love, because Grammy is special and she will love it.

Don’t worry about me one single bit. I am going to be here, on my own clock, and very happy. I will probably order Chinese food for lunch. I’ll read. I’ll probably watch Big Little Lies to catch up for the new season. I might write a little. I may go for a walk. I will not clean. Or fold laundry. Or do anything else around the house. And I will feel no guilt.

At around 4 o’clock I’ll start to miss you. And that is when it’ll be time for you to come home and pile on the couch with me and tell me all about your day. And then you guys can make breakfast for dinner and we can eat and laugh and get ready for Monday together. And enjoy each other — because you gave me a break. And I needed it. And I love you for it.

Your dad can read you books tonight because he went to college too. You will not complain. You will enjoy this “day with Dad” and realize that he hung the moon too and you are lucky to have him. And while you are upstairs doing that, I will look at the kind of clean kitchen and the kind of packed lunches and the laundry that mysteriously accumulated while you were all out, and I will shake my head and smile. And then I will turn off the light. Because it can wait until the morning. And because 0.27%.

No deviations from this schedule will be accepted. Because I love you. And I love me.