Last Thursday, I thought it would be wise for me to sit down and get a head start on my Mother’s Day blog, because I knew what my days leading up to it would be like—chaos. Well, I was mentally ravaged by my day job, and was applying the last coat of polyurethane on my gift to my daughter for Mother’s Day; so after one coat of shiny stuff, I realized I deserved to put my feet up and just not think for an evening.
Friday came, and I remembered that I had to make tzatziki, hummus, and spinach and artichoke dip at the request of my beloved daughter for my grandbaby’s first birthday party on Saturday. Everyone knows that the earlier you make dips like those, the tastier they are—I couldn’t leave them until the day of the party. My reputation was at stake, after all. My husband had to work late that night so, after the hummus and tzatziki were prepared, I decided to flop on the couch and wallow in self-pity instead of tackling the third dip. It was my Mother’s Day treat to myself—frozen pizza and white wine. Kim Kardashian only wishes she could live such a lavish lifestyle like mine.
I had previously agreed to take my granddaughter early in the morning on Saturday so my daughter could focus her “prepatory” efforts at other-grandma’s house in advance of the arrival of the fifty-some-odd people attending the shindig. Forget Princess Charlotte’s birth… everyone’s favorite little girl is actually my granddaughter, and they were all coming from far and wide to bask in her awesomeness. Thankfully, my daughter trimmed down the invite list that was, at one point, hovering near 200 of the most active fan club members of my granddaughter’s.
That little girl, with only a 20-minute nap under her belt, rocked that crowd from 1:00 to 6:00pm. I was impressed. She then reached for me and rubbed her eyes. I am known as “The Sleepinator,” and took my little angel in my arms and had her asleep in three minutes flat. What a privilege it was to hold the star of the show in my arms as she recharged.
By the end of that day, my daughter was pretty close to unraveling, so I suggested that, since she had to work in the afternoon of M-Day, she just come over once they woke up, I’d make us breakfast, and then she could just leave the baby with me and go. Spend her day how she wanted before her shift. My Mother’s Day gift to her. Did she hesitate and say, “No, it’s fine. It’s Mother’s Day and you deserve a break too”? Umm. No. I don’t think I had a chance to finish my sentence before I heard the squealing of tires and was left standing in my doorway with a grinning baby in my arms and only one piece of leftover bacon. My husband had to work that day too, so I was left with two very overly enthusiastic dogs and a one-year-old.
Was I upset? Disgruntled?
I was blessed with a day of bonding with the offspring of the person who is the reason I have a lifetime membership at the Mother’s Day Club (MDC).
Thinking back to when I was first inducted in the MDC in 1994, I still chuckle. I was living in Central America with the father of my child and they celebrate Mother’s Day in May (just like in North America). What made me laugh is that they celebrate Father’s Day in March. When I heard that, I thought about my arrogant, machismo, man-child of a husband and grouped all Latino men into his same category. I thought, “Well isn’t that so apropos. Leave it to the macho Latinos to have their Father’s Day ahead of Mother’s Day.” Years later, I realized it was actually a global conspiracy—Father’s Day is during the month with better weather! That’s how they guarantee to fulfill their urge to sear animal flesh on a barbeque and honor themselves—brewski in hand. It’s a global plot to remind us of our place—the woman must bear the burdens and rains of the world while the man basks in the sun while breathing in glorious barbeque smoke.
“The man” thought I’d be distracted by the radio and jewellery store contests to honor me. Ha!
Someone should let “the man” know that I’m totally onto “him.”
As I sat inside my house with my beloved granddaughter on Sunday, we peered out the window like characters out of a Dr. Seuss book as the rain poured down, hoping that The Cat in The Hat would come back. Hoping that The Cat in The Hat would come back and bring his funky cleaning machine to clean up the three sourdough-bread-loaf-sized piles of vomit that my dog just cacked onto my granddaughter’s play mat because he got into the compost bin a few hours earlier.
Don’t worry though, I didn’t wallow in self-pity the entire time. I enjoyed every second with my granddaughter, and still had time to check our sunblock inventory to ensure we had enough SPF-30 for me (and SPF-60 for her) for the inevitable Father’s Day barbeque at my brother-in-law’s house on what will surely be a scorcher.
Did I digress?
“What else is new, Veronica?”
So anyhoo… People seem so concerned about what to “get” their mother on Mother’s Day. I will admit that I struggle with it too. I have always been of the opinion that we should be celebrating the people who gave us that title. And so, as I lovingly wrapped the frame I helped my granddaughter make (complete with ladybugs and bumble bees made from her fingerprints), I could only smile and think about my beautiful little girl at that age. I could only smile and think about the many gifts my beautiful girl gives me all year long.
She knows not to buy me things when she’s struggling to pay her bills.
She knows that her words are the greatest gift she could ever give me.
You know what? I’d say that she has given me more amazing gifts over this past year, than I ever could have hoped for.
Her words of love, respect, gratitude, and humility surrounding what my actions (and me, in general) mean to her, fill my heart to overflowing. Even when she says things like, “This is the reason you can’t die before me,” as I enlighten her with a tidbit she couldn’t come up with on her own. It’s words like those that will never fade from my memory, even after the fragrant lilies in the vase die.
My challenge to all of the sons and daughters out there is that, this year, fill your mother’s hearts to overflowing with your words and your actions for the entire year. Don’t wait for a rainy day in May—celebrate her every day.
Oh, and by the way… if you run into “the man,” could you tell him that maybe it’d be cool to actually enter those contests to win me something special?
I’m just sayin’…