My First Mother's Day

Eight Der-de-der, SEVEN years ago (Thank you, Shannon!), we took my Mom out for a Mother's Day breakfast. We ate at the Iron Horse in Chino Valley, AZ. Also affectionately known at "The Metal Mule" - no, it's not the champage brunch at the Hilton, but they do manage to find the all-out best cooks in the area! James was um, (yes, I'm pausing to count. yes, on my fingers. hush.) eight months old. He fell asleep just before the food arrived, and Zorak held him. I ate my meal with a napkin in my lap and used both hands. I even finished it while it was still hot. That breakfast is still on my top ten list of great meals. It was a wonderful Mother's Day.

Tomorrow, around oh, perhaps noon, there will be thousands of men trekking their way out to the dog house. And there will be an approximately equal number of women in some state of unpleasantness, glaring at the backside of their little pound puppies. Now, I'm going to wax philosophical for a sec, but please don't tune me out. Just bear with me and I think you'll see where I'm going with this.

I can't speak for the women who do expect flowers, breakfast in bed, jewelry, and other shows of appreciation. I'm not one of them - flowers are nice, but I don't take care of them and they end up dropping nasty bits all over my counter and the water is always grey and fuzzy and quite smelly by the time I give up and dump them out. That's just gross.

I don't want food in my bed. Have you ever tried eating anything with four children galumpfing about on a bed? It's not pretty, and there isn't enough Shout! in the world to get that much bacon grease out of a mattress pad. Just give me a cup of coffee out on the back deck and five minutes for my pupils to dilate properly and we'll call it good, okay?

Jewelry, I love. I do. But I like the stuff I can wear all the time because if it's just for special occasions, I'll get desperate and want to wear them while I'm washing the Sunday clothes and really, who am I fooling? And if it's good, but I wear it all the time, I'm going to lose it. I just will. And then I'll feel bad and end up trying to pawn a spare child for a replacement diamond and, well, that just looks bad in court. So, for practicality purposes, jewelry is out.

This is just me. But there are women who do expect X, Y and/or Z to be delivered. And they're heartbroken and wrathful when it is not delivered. I think the best advice I can think of includes some words of wisdom I read on a homeschooling message board, combined with a philosophy I try to bear in mind daily, anyway.

(1) Be proactive. Don't hedge around and hope that the mortal you married has gleaned supernatural powers at his last management seminar. If you must, set money aside in the budget, give the kids a list and an envelope of cash, and send them to the store with hubby and very. clear. instructions. No, he didn't learn last year, and if you're going on year ten and it's still not in his nature to remember these things, please don't expect this year to be different. In his defense, this only comes once a year. In that time, a lot has happened: teeth have been lost, gas prices have fluxuated wildly, there have been birthdays, Christmas, Easter, mortgage payments... heck, we women can grow -- and birth -- an entire human in less time than the span between Mother's Days!

(2) This is really about motherhood, right? Well, we're fortunate to be the ones in charge of mothering, which involves training. I like to use the phrase, "My daughters-in-law will thank me for this." It reflects the training I try to do daily, whether it be teaching the boys to put their shoes away, hang up towels, clear their spots, hold the door for ladies, or not pass gas on purpose at the dinner table. Being thoughtful and willing to show appreciation is one of the things I try to instill in them. Now, whether they marry women who like to be Queen For A Day, or women who'd rather have a general all-purpose appreciative tone year-round is up to them. But I will have done my part. Yay me! (I'm still formulating the bits for, "My future son-in-law will thank me for this." But Miss Emily is young, and I'm still in the psychotically blissful grace period with her.)

Fortunately for Zorak, who took six years to remember the year of my birth, and another two to get the day of the month right, I don't want much more than a hug, a kiss, and a "Happy Mother's Day" from the boys and Zorak. I get celebrated daily in this house, and it's really nice.

Ah, ah, ahhh. Come back. I'm not saying that the odor emanating from the fridge is a celebration of motherhood. To be perfectly truthful, my fridge had funky odors before I had children. I just had a much better chance of finding the source of the odor back then.

Yes, a card is nice. Sure, doing something of my choosing is nice. But I am loved and needed and appreciated every time I sit on the couch and my lap, shoulders, and head are suddenly bombarded by small ones clamboring for a spot on Mom. (It used to be for a spot on my lap, but now any appendage with a landing surface seems to do.) No, *I* don't always appreciate those moments, but then, that's my issue, not theirs. *They* are showing that they appreciate me.

Every time the children come to ME to show me what they've found, or drawn, or read, they are celebrating motherhood with me.

Every time they ask me what I think, or "what if", or just ramble on to be in touch with me in some way, they're savoring me, The Mama.

Every time I get a hug-for-no-reason, there really is a reason: because I'm Mom. It's like drawing dividends year round on an investment.

Every "please" and every "thank you" I don't have to pull from their distracted little minds - whew, love that!

Every time Zorak has to leave town, and he knows that his children are in good hands, he's celebrating motherhood. My motherhood.

The fact that I'm the Mom, and that I am appreciated, is a given. That's kind of nice. And it beats only getting the special treatment once a year. It beats wrangling the Joneses for Best Mother's Day Gift. It beats giving money to Hallmark.

But there is nothing - no diamond big enough, no weekend quiet enough, no spa-certificate-I'll-never-use-before-it-expires elaborate enough, to beat eating a meal with a napkin on my lap, using both hands, and maybe even enjoying a cup of coffee on the back deck afterword. And just maybe, if I'm lucky, nobody will intentionally pass gass while I'm eating.

Kiss those babies!
~Dy