Bits And Pieces

Mother's Day

     It's almost time for our day, fellow mammas.  The day we're supposed to recline in bed while husband and kids whip up a breakfast tray complete with flowers.  It's our day to never lift a finger, to readjust our halo and exclaim with screams of pleasure over the gifts offered.

     Now that's what I've heard is supposed to be a mother's fate on her day, but as an observer of a few fellow females in the forty and fifty age group--it just ain't so.

     For instance one friend of mine--the mother of five boys--received a new lawnmower, the easiest to push variety, for her day.  Well, she evened things up a bit by buying hubby some new living room drapes for his day.

     Then there's the mamma who asked for and received a new tree for the yard.  She was as happy over her five-foot spruce as over a gift of two dozen red roses.

     A relative--mother of six children--had her seventh on Mother's Day, which was arranging things nicely I thought.

     And then there's another gal I know who always buys her own Mother's Day gift.  She charges it, of course, and thanks hubby and children sweetly as she pulls the gift from her closet Mother's Day morning.  She has an excuse though--"Well, my husband always forgets and the children are scattered, so I just buy what I want and it saves everyone a lot of trouble," she said.

     An out-of-town friend who with no children of her own has been doing Girl Scout work for years.  It was on Mother's Day last year that her current scout troop arrived on her doorstep with a basket of garden flowers for the group's "second mother."

     I had breakfast in bed one Mother's Day morning.  Mainly because I'd been screaming for years that I should--and with the children five years apart there was always one big enough to help Pop with kitchen duty.

     Daughter never cared for cooking, but Son no. 1 liked pots and pans so it was planned I'd get my breakfast on a tray.

     It was nice to relax and not figure I had to start the first meal of the day rolling.  And I did get a good breakfast.  I'd heard a slight argument in the kitchen over the fine points of cooking scrambled eggs--Pop's one culinary art.  I got the second batch cooked Pop's method, all feathery light and just slightly moist.  There was toast dripping with butter, fruit juice and even a fresh tulip in a vase.

     It looked lovely and the perfect start for a wonderful Mother's Day.  Crumbs, though, I found weren't comfortable in bed.  They were itchy and my legs were slowly numbing as they held the tray.  I felt lonely all by myself.  The voices and laughs from the kitchen sounded like fun and I felt left out, so I took my tray to the kitchen to finish with the rest of the family and that proved to be my last breakfast in bed.

     When it comes to gifts, I always preferred the homemade items brought by the youngsters from school, crayoned cards, a drawing of me with stick arms and legs, or a plant in a decorated tin can, all offered by a proud child.

     Now that they've grown the cry is "Mother's Day!  Gosh, when's that?" and an accusing look at me "What do you want?"

     Pop always says, "Mother's Day, you're not my mother."  But he usually manages to get the at home sons out for a purchase.  However, Mother's Day offers a problem for my married daughter.  Now who should they spend the day with, his mother or hers?

     There have been many gifts on many Mother's Days, but two years ago a bouquet of my favorite fragrant, red carnations arrived on this May holiday for mothers.  I accused Pop, but discover a card which read, "To the best Mom, from your No. 1 son"--it was sent from college.

     "Just happened to have some money," he declared when I called to thank him.  It wasn't the flowers exactly.  It was just that this was his first year away from home and Pop hadn't reminded him.  My unsentimental son just remembered all by himself.

     I think it's nice to have a special day for mothers.  A time when we can remember our own mothers and do a little reminiscing about days past.  A time to count our blessings that we were given the special gift of children or next Sunday wouldn't be our day.

Written May 11, 1967