Mother’s Day. Caleb was sent in early to distract me while ominous rumblings and scrapings echoed in the kitchen and then, voila, Liam appeared carrying a huge bowl of cheerios and milk, dotted with dried cranberries (because he couldn’t find the raisins). There was some death-defying clambering involved in this act of food preparation—the cereal is kept on top of the fridge and the cranberries on the top shelf of the cupboard—so it was a good thing that Caleb kept me out of the kitchen while Liam (literally) monkeyed around getting breakfast ready.
When I was their age, I used marshal my brother and sister into making our mom breakfast in bed, also with cereal and milk, (ignoring that she never ate cereal). We would collect flowers from the backyard (perk of our suburban existence) and “strew” them poetically on the breakfast tray. Usually, however, by the time we got everything together and got upstairs with the tray, what we presented to her was a bowl of cereal drowned in milk and surrounded by wilted wildflowers. But she loved it, every year. Or so she said at the time.
And gifts? Gifts, you say? Well, my cup runneth over. Caleb got me a lovely pink pot with ivy in it, from his school plant sale (for which I put the $6 in his backpack last week); and Husband took the hint from my baseball post and offered up a tastefully folded Modells bag, in which I found a brand-new baseball mitt (be still my beating heart). Wrapped into a tiny square inside the mitt was a certificate for a hot stone massage, at a spa to be determined (anyone, suggestions for a good spa? I’m inclined to Great Jones Spa or Dorit Baxter, but any other ideas?)
Luckily, today is cold and windy—not an ideal go-to-the-park-and-play-catch day, so I’m saved from having to actually use my new mitt, which I am assured is top of the line.
A lovely morning, all in all. No fancy brunch, no restaurant lines, no social obligations, no kid-based sporting events, nothing. And really, nothing is what I wanted: a day where I don’t make plans, organize logistics, pack lunches, think about what’s for dinner, fold laundry, or make phone calls.
So to all my mother friends out there, I wish you a day filled with nothing. Well, nothing and maybe a bowl of cereal poured by small loving hands.