“What’s the time Mister Wolf?”
The sleepy voice beside me responds, “5:30.”
“Turn off the alarm. It’s Mother’s day; I get to sleep in.”
And so began the day. With one major concession in my pocket, I eagerly anticipate an entire day of more accommodations, say like breakfast already made by the time I grandly descend the stairs around 8:30, offers to massage my feet, paint my toenails, that sort of thing.
One child follows me down, crashes on the sofa, and declares, “I’m tired!”
My daughter yells from the landing, “What’s the weather going to be like?” A few minutes later, she walks in dressed like a vagabond in her brother’s hand-me-downs.
My youngest saunters in. “What’s for breakfast?” he asks ravenously. “My last meal was more than 12 hours ago.”
“Measure the kid,” I tell my husband. “If he grew even 1/10th of an inch overnight, I’ll feed him. Otherwise, no dice. ”
“You,” I point to my tired oldest child. “Put your clothes away or I’m donating them to charity.”
“You,” I point to my daughter, “I know you’re surrounded by testosterone in this house, but that’s no reason to dress like a boy.”
“What’s up with Mom?” they wonder aloud. “Why is she being so mean?”
My husband sighs. “It’s Mother’s Day,” he reminds them. “Have you wished her?”
They look suitably contrite.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” they wish in chorus. They look at each other and immediately assess that they don’t have a gift amongst them, not as much as a dried leaf.
I guess I’m going to have to get all my validation today from the radio. On NPR, the host Scott Simon recites a gushing tribute to moms; Moms rock. He’s convinced that mothers come equipped with special magical powers; we have eyes on the back of our heads. We can even predict weather (I add that).
My youngest is the first to speak.
“I’m going to let you design a character on my Guild Wars 2 game,” he says like he’s put a lot of thought into his gift idea. “I know you wish at least one of us was fat when we were babies. I’ve never understood it, but today you get your wish.”
Yippie. I get to customize my very own virtual fat boy.
Not to be outdone, my daughter jumps in. “How would you like a 10” hanging flower basket?” she asks.
She runs to the study and returns with a card. “Chose a 10” basket for Mother’s Day,” she reads aloud. “Available for both shade and sun.”
She hands me the card with great aplomb.
Gee, whiz. It’s a coupon.
“It says $20, but it works out to $12 per basket because $8 goes to support my track team,” she says. “You get something and my team gets something. It’s win-win!”
My cup runnith over.
“Great. Can we eat now?” My youngest asks. He looks pleased as punch. He should. This kid has a singular talent for memorable gift ideas. For my birthday a few years ago, he gave me full use of a few choice pieces of Lego for an entire day! One Christmas, he handed me a crisp $1 and urged me to go crazy at the $ store. Years ago, he shared his $20 bill with his sister by tearing it in half.
My daughter cuddles up to me and promises to wear a dress to her brother’s convocation next week.
Later, my oldest saves me a trip to the store and even gives me back the change.
Kids are awesome. Everyone should have at least one.
I mark my calendar. It’s turning out to be by far the most memorable Mother’s Day, yet.
How are these kids going to top this for Father’s day? I wonder.
“What’s the time Mister Wolf?”