When our first child was born I told my mother through hot, hormonal tears, “All these years I thought my birthday was about me. My day. What was I thinking?? My birthday is about YOU!”
Now I throw 4 birthday parties a year, 5 including Paul’s. (Even the years when it’s “just a family party” it’s still a party in my book.) The labors pains have faded since that cold December day. Now I wouldn’t dream of snatching a single moment of their birthdays to horrify them and their peers with my hair raising tales of what it took to bring them into this world. (“And then when I saw the forceps…”) No. My joy is in them having a day.
Even now, Mother’s Day is about them. This entire week, Kate has been giddy with excitement. She has stayed up late with her crayons and night light in her bed every night, drawing me pictures for the big day. She’s the one who dragged Paul to the florist this afternoon and picked out my roses. (“Come on Dad, we have to go to Mother’s Day Land!”) Andy’s made me something at school that I’m not supposed to know about and Luke cannot wait to help with breakfast in the morning. I had to cross my heart I would not get out of bed tomorrow until they have brought me my tray. They cannot wait for the sun to rise, bless them.
Right now it’s late and my eyelids are tired. My cold eggs and burnt toast are just mere hours away, and oh, how I wish my own mother were here to read me a story and tuck me in. Then in the morning we could feast on soggy cereal from our tray in the big bed and enjoy these four beautiful roses together.
Happy Mother’s Day Mom.