The Worst Mothers’ Day Ever was the one when I was nine or ten and I had completely forgotten that it was Mother’s Day. I tried to bluff my way through by rifling through my desk, and producing a craft made at school. Unfortunately, it was a calendar, with a collage owl face on the top, made back in January. My mother pointed out that no one gives calendars out halfway through the year; I was busted.
My Best Mother’s Day Ever has many competitive entries. There was the multi-generational lunch with my mother, my grandmother, my daughters and son. There was the day of my youngest daughter’s baptism, when mothers of all kinds (godmothers, grandmothers, first mothers, second mothers, mothers-in-law, you name it) were in attendance, some dancing around meeting one another for the first time. There was the year of the pussy willow planting. There have been Mother’s Days that have been overtaken by soccer tournaments, that have been pushed back, postponed or cancelled by Real Life. There have been barbecues and breakfasts in bed.
Today, I got up before the rest of the house was awake. I put on the shoes we had chosen together to mark the occasion. There were sleeping teenagers (not all of them mine) all over the place, recovering from Prom. By the time I got home from church, after praying to our Mother God for them – their lives, their loves, their friends, their future, their present day – they had broken the sofa by sitting on it in a pile all at once. “Hello, homewreckers,” I greeted them wryly, and they laughed a little sheepishly and said sorry for the sofa.
I drove my husband to the airport, dropped off my son’s tux at the rental place, picked up take-out food for dinner. The youngest, herself in high school, made me the traditional Coloured-in Heart Paper Card. We watched some tv, and now everyone’s turned in for an Early Night.
The best Mothers’ Days are the ones when I get to be the mother of my children. The best Mother’s Day, so far, is always today.