Once upon a time, when my two children were young, I loved Mother's Day.

First there were the handmade presents. Their teachers, anxious to teach children how to love their mothers, told them that moms love jewelry, and the jewelry they love best is made from household refuse - popsicle sticks, bits of styrofoam, twisted pasta shapes. This refuse was transformed to jewelry with the aid of paint and glue, then wrapped in a box and put away until Mother's Day. It would next appear, lying on a breakfast tray that was brought to the bedroom where Mom pretended to sleep. Next to the box would be a plate of irregularly sized pancakes drowning in a sea of maple syrup.

 

I loved this breakfast, for I loved lying in bed listening to the sounds of the kitchen. First would be the delicate pitter-pat of my daughter's light steps, then the heavier thump-bump of my son. This might be followed by the delicate crickety-crack of a glass breaking on the floor, and the heavier thump-bump of a frying pan and all its contents being overturned on the floor. Then the shouts - 'not that way,' 'let me do it,' 'you don't know how,' 'do too.' Cabinets banged, the refrigerator door was not shut tight. Though I lay in bed wanting to spring up and attack whatever foodstuffs were on the kitchen floor, I would force myself to be still. I reminded myself that lying in bed, moribund and inert, had its usefulness: the children were learning how to love another person.

Then the children grew up and I began to hate Mother's Day. This misanthropic attitude developed the year both of my children, away at college, abandoned Mother's Day in favor of studying for their own exams.

They forgot.

One of them remembered and alerted the other late in the day, and two calls came in close together, apologetic and guilty.

I thought to myself that I could have hurt feelings and risk entering that dread psychological state known as Martyred-mom-ism, or I could discover what this day meant after all. What makes a mother happy? Taking one's mother out for an arbitrary lunch one day of the year might not be the gateway to heaven. Having children who love you all year round, even while they forget your existence in favor of living their own lives, could this be what makes a mother happy?

I made a plan. The following year I insisted that the children come at brunch 'to take me out.' When they arrived I had a quiche bubbling in the oven, a salad ready to be tossed. I placed the flowers they brought in the center of the table and brought out the presents I had bought for them.

Startled, they both stared at me. Crazy Mom. Yes, crazy, but happy, for the card manufacturers who gave us hearts and flowers were wrong. It was my turn to say thank you for a whole year of children who got impatient with Mom, but loved her anyway, for children who tried to bridge the generation gap, who remembered to call every now and then, but often forgot to call because they were busy, and busy meant they were living fully and completely.

Mothers of the world, unite. Give your kids a present on Mother's Day.

back to food is art    contributors   contact us  top of page   membership agreement   home   about us

©In Mamas Kitchen. Inc.