MDay

May 10, 2015 

My Mother's Day began with word from the baseball gods at 5:30am that today's tournament was rained out. I gladly returned to some shut-eye and awakened next to my boy in his old man robe, peeking in to see if my coma had subsided. It had, indeed, so he climbed on in and wished me a happy M day as he grabbed the controls for the TV. "I think I will mix it up today," he declared as he clicked on "The Office" on Netflix. Drew gets fixated on one show he really likes, and lately his fave, "The Office," has been on the back burner. So this was a gift to us.

Both of my babes presented me with homemade treasures this morning in my signature yellow. Drew made me a poster/placemat with an acrostic describing his mother. Along with "easily makes me food and my lunch," the "H" was "Happy things are the two words I would use to describe my mom." I asked him about happy things. "You are happy things!" he explained. Duh.

I will take it. 

I can't think of a better way for him to see me. There is a miracle in there.

And my girl presented me with a yellow mug she made, complete with hand-etched sunshines because, she told me, "you're tanorexic." She also added that she got an A on said mug and hoped the handle wouldn't break like the tall pink mug she had made as a much smaller tot that had met such a crippled fate. I still use that mug because she made it and it's adorable, but the absent handle is a tad obvious. Little did I know she had noticed and remembered and spent several grueling hours in her (much despised) eighth grade art class to rectify the situation. I also appreciate the shout-out to my solid commitment to eventual melanoma. Grace doesn't miss a beat.

I've had the choice every Mother's Day (thanks again, Hallmark!) for many years to be forlorn at the void my mom left or to celebrate the superstars in my life who filled in the gaps. Mostly I tend to choose the latter. My stepmother, for example, has sacrificed more and loved more than any biological mama. And there aren't words apt to honor the aunts, friends, mothers of friends, and mentors who have held me in their caring grasp. 

Mother's Day changed when I became one. It got easier, really. I stopped dreading it. And now I get to watch Netflix before church with a stout 10-year old who sees "happy things" when he sees his Mom. And now I get to drink from a yellow cup made by my first-born who is just an inch from standing eye-to-eye with me. She remembered the handle broke. And she fixed it.