My wonderful son, however, had other plans for me. I slept soundly until 6:50 a.m., when I heard his alarm go off. I thought he'd forgotten to turn it off over the weekend.
Then, I didn't hear another sound until almost an hour and a half later, when my door opened, and a voice called out, "Happy Mother's Day!" And there was my boy, bearing a tray with breakfast in bed.
He made me quite a feast--a really large omelette and peanut butter toast. With whip cream on it. And Thin Mints. (He has a way with garnish!)
"You even got a bonus omelette!" he pointed out. "See, I cooked that little one in the single-egg pan!"
He was very excited to serve it to me, and asked if he, too, could have toast with peanut butter and Thin Mints. I offered him one of mine, but he wanted his own.
I dug into my omelette. It was...well-done. And not necessarily your standard omelette. It was more of a three-inch thick fried egg than a fluffy omelette.
"Wow, you did a good job cooking this," I commented.
"Yup!" Mark answered. "I cracked all the eggs in there one by one so it would cook right. And then I filled it with cheese!" He beamed proudly at me.
My cousin, who'd witnessed the event, told me later he put half a bag of cheese in there. She couldn't stop snickering, watching me eat my egg-a-licious breakfast. She only stopped when I loudly offered to share it with her.
Mark and I enjoyed our feast and talked about our plans for the day. We decided on a picnic and hike, and to invite our friend Edra along with us.
"Too bad she's not here to share your breakfast!" Mark said, sadly. I agreed.
I ate as much as I could, then tried discreetly to take my leftovers into the kitchen. Mark was surprised at how little I'd eaten.
"It was really, really good," I praised him. "But I usually only eat an egg and a half. This is a lot of eggs!"
"Well, you can save it for tomorrow," he said.
"Great idea!" I answered.
My second Mother's Day surprise came when I entered the kitchen. Here's what I saw:
"You used SIX EGGS?" I gasped.
"Well, five. I dropped one on the floor. But not on your new cabinets," he added quickly. He said it so fast and with such conviction that I cried a little inside, knowing he'd done exactly that.
"What's that?" I asked, pointing to the goopy pale liquid.
"Pancakes," Mark said. "They didn't turn out so well."
There were three frying pans on the stove, one of which was glistening.
"What's all this?" I asked, running a finger through the pan.
"Oh, butter," Mark explained. "I melted a whole stick of butter in there, but then the pancake mix got too runny. It turned into one giant pancake. And it was so skinny!"
I bit my lip. He was so earnest, and had worked so hard. The food turned my stomach a little, but it completely warmed my heart. He'd tried so hard, and I loved him for it. (Coincidentally, I realized he must feel the same way when I cook for him! He is just as kind and complimentary on my food; I never realized it was so...not good.)
I took a final look at the spilled batter, the empty shells, the butter-filled pan, and the heap of raw-egg-soaked towels on the counter. Then I smiled at Mark and said, "You know what I like best about Mother's Day? That I don't have to do the dishes!"
I kissed him on the head and walked out. He groaned a little, but bless his little heart, he didn't complain. He washed every single dish.
And what better present could I get than that?
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