IT'S MOTHER'S DAY, SO....

some things to remember

Photo by Taisiia Shestopal on Unsplash

This morning, I woke up to the sounds of Alexa playing a low beat from my children’s rooms, above me—Ruth B, the morning music that punctuates our day lately (my daughter’s choice). They’re playing Monopoly, I imagine, a game that’s extended for weeks.

We have a new rule: the kids play upstairs until 8 am on weekends. We all rise early during the week; this gives everyone some space.

But it’s mother’s day tomorrow, my daughter argued at bedtime. Yes yes, cuddles and togetherness. I can’t wait. But first, rest.

There’s been talk of a surprise breakfast—the kid’s and my husband’s whispers last night. Pancakes from one of my cookbooks, cappuccino, my daily green juice. But he has been working long and late; when I hear his breathing—deep, nourishing—I curl around him for a beat, then slip out of bed.

Upstairs, I hear laughter and chaos. I rise the stairs to the smell of acetone—sharp, surprising. I haven’t painted my nails in years. I turn into the bathroom and see my son on the floor, fingers and toes painted a cheerful, aloha red, my daughter dabbing the same on her own fingers.

There’s aloha on the sink, the bathtub. Half a roll of toilet paper is scattered in small, pinkish piles across the floor.

I feel more patient and measured than in year’s past—than days past. I slip the lid of the toilet seat down, join them. My son approaches me, fingers splayed out, arching up to keep them from touching.

“Mama, can you fix me?” His voice is small and tender. I can still cup his whole face in my hands.

I dab cotton swabs in polish remover and swipe around his nail bed, up and down his fingers, on the backs of his hands, palms. Next, my daughter. There is paint everywhere. I pull them close as I work—one by one—their bodies tucked into mine, a perfect fit.

This scene is punctuated by piles of soccer jersey’s and socks, hair brushes, scrunchies, yesterdays spoils. Two apple cores lay fallow on the sink’s edge, and there’s a garbage pale that needs emptying—signs of a mother letting things lie, even for one morning.

This time, instead of triggering my hyperdrive, I see these as signs of life. Of growing independence (the kids bathed by themselves last night, got themselves a snack quietly this morning. The garbage? I haven’t wiped a bottom in years. No diapers, no wipes—garbage is no longer urgent).

Downstairs, we all make the bed (I’d like to sit in my corner chair in a pretty, clean room—I tell them—like a queen). They scatter to the kitchen.

My daughter comes in to ask how to make green juice. Then back again—would I like pancakes, or maybe an omelet? And if an omelet, how do I make it? And are the eggs in the basement fridge fresh? And what do we do if there’s not enough eggs? And oh, we’re out of buttermilk so if we did make pancakes, which ones?

I start to trouble shoot—the six eggs can become 3 two-egg omelets. There’s goat cheese and parmesan in the fridge, herbs in the garden. If pancakes (which also sound good), use kiefer instead of buttermilk. There’s also drinkable yogurt, but if you use that and the almond flour, add extra vanilla…..

I stop myself.

Here’s what I do not want to do on mother’s day:

• rush

• answer emails

• break up fights

• clean toilets

• make meals

• do dishes

• solve problems

Play to your strengths—I tell her—make whatever you and daddy know best. I’ll love it.

She skips off and the sounds of clinks and clatters, rise. Spoons against bowls. Eggs, beating.

“WORST DAY EVER!” my son shouts from the kitchen, then storms off, pounding up the stairs. He’s been left out, I suspect. Second fiddle doesn’t fly with him.

“Why don’t you go rub mama’s feet?” my daughter calls after him. Ever cheerful. Hopeful this day can be for me what the world has told her it should be.

I’m content here in my chair.

Gone are the years I stewed in my bed, wishing they knew what I wanted. Gone, the years, trying to train my (Hungarian) husband that breakfast in bed is a thing here—the thing. Gone are trays filled with food in our old (tiny) bedroom, little knees and elbows threatening to upend the whole event, syrup dripping on sheets. Gone, too—politely nibbling too-indulgent donuts and croissants when what I really want is berries, my morning greens. Gone even, the carefree breakfast in the hammock we’d landed on in years since (a better fit for my family)—the kids running around me while I at last, put up my feet.

I’m writing. I have iced tea. I am happy.

Somewhere from the kitchen I smell cat food (We don’t have a cat). Overcooked eggs. My daughter brings me the green juice to sip. It’s slightly sludgy but 1000% my love language. She sees me.

Today, there won’t be lavish brunches with mimosas or bloody mary’s. No flowers on the table. No perfect pictures of me and the kids, love-struck and groomed.

Here’s what I do want on mother’s day:

• food, healthyish

• as many hugs and kisses as I ask for

• my children’s hair to be brushed (not by me)

• a few hours in my garden

• the sound of them, near me—thriving.

Grab for the little moments. The lilacs in bloom in the backyard (even if they don’t appear on a tray by your bed). The sparkle of your son’s newly painted toes, your daughter choosing the mustard shirt with the eyelet sleeves you bought her last year that has sat, untouched, in her closet. Their voices, love-filled and trusting.

The world will try to package your moments, tell you what your memories should look like.

But these are yours to make.

Hours later, after we clean up and go to church and dig in the garden, Monopoly resumes, upstairs. I sit down—alone again—to write to my mother, sisters, friends.

A text pops up. A note from my daughter. No emojis, just this:

“It may be possible to gild pure gold, but who can make his mother more beautiful?” - Mahatma Gandhi.

My children are becoming beautiful people.

Independent, alive, their own.

That is enough.

xx

-S

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