Mothers, remember those days when you were instructed to stay in bed, because your little darlings were bringing breakfast to you in bed? You had to act delighted with the tray that was decorated with paper flowers, hand-drawn placemat and something that resembled, some sort of food, such as burned toast with jelly and a glass of kool-aid. You would read the handmade card, and then tear up with love and joy that were expressed so eloquently. Or maybe you woke to the sounds of your kids arguing in the kitchen, plates and pans being dropped or thrown, the smoke detector screaming, and then at least one of them crying and the others stomping off to their rooms, and the littlest one presenting you with the remains of what was meant to be your Mother’s Day breakfast. And you wished you could just go downstairs, make yourself a bowl of raisin bran and eat it peacefully while you read the paper and sipped your coffee. Or maybe you requested a way to prevent all that, and you went out for breakfast. You stood in line for a half hour, while your kid’s fidgitted and poked each other and then complained loudly to you that “He’s touching me.” When you were finally seated, the coffee was cold, and the eggs were overdone, and the family in the next booth kept bumping into your back, and a doll came flying over into your table and landed in the syrup. Or maybe you had the perfect Mother’s Day breakfast, as I did this morning.
The plan was that I would call my son Steve when I awoke, which could be anywhere from 5:30 to 8:30, but it happened that I slept in this morning until 9:30. Guilt swept over me as I pictured my son not only starving to death but wondering if I’d died in my sleep. After guiltily taking my patient dog outside to empty and then scooping up her long awaited food, I called Steve, and he was very gracious about my tardiness. He said he was glad I could sleep in. Then in about 10 minutes, he appeared at my door with ingredients for one of the most delicious breakfasts a Mother could wish for. Blueberry pancakes, bacon, orange juice, and hot tea were served to me at my kitchen table with the patio door open so I could hear the birds, with classical music playing in the background. OK. I was responsible for the classical music, but it was such a delight to have breakfast with my grownup son with grownup conversation. I think you have to get past the young-children-in-your-life stage before you can truly enjoy Mother’s day. When the meal was over, Steve, in his typical fashion, whisked away the dishes, loaded the dishwasher, and cleaned up the kitchen. As a finishing touch, we went outside to throw the ball for Dora. A perfect ending of a perfect visit. Oh, but we weren’t quite finished. Steve had to pick up a few things I had dropped over the last couple days, since I’m still not allowed to bend over, and he filled both of Dora’s water bowls, since that’s impossible to do without bending or lifting. Off he went to go on a fishing trip with his buddies, as I settled down with a cup of coffee to write to you. I wonder how my daughter in Syracuse is doing with her special day. She’ll call me later, and I’ll open the thoughtful gift she sent me. I am one lucky mom. I hope you mothers are having as nice a day as I am.