Not a Holiday

Sunday was Mother's Day and this year, I received something new: an epiphany.

What I realized is that Mother's Day is an awesome day for kids, but a terrible day for moms. Which pretty much makes this "special" day just like every other day of the year for moms.

Let me explain. I have the most awesome mom around, so as her kid, Mother's Day really is a holiday. I love to spoil my mom, to make her feel special, because she deserves and appreciates it. That part of Mother's Day was great, and a total success--I got to show and tell my mom just how amazing she is, and I loved that.

But as a mom, I dread this "holiday." This must be how married women feel on Valentine's Day--a sense of excitement building up to the day, the celebration of an amazing relationship. What will he plan? What will he do? Will I be pampered, showered with love, appreciated for my hard work and continual support? Will I be as lucky and happy, as spoiled and well-treated, as all the other moms on Facebook are?

And the answer is...no. Just like Valentine's Day, the guy (or the kid) doesn't bring it. Or brings something worse than loving words--he brings a bad attitude. He puts me up on a motherly pedestal just so he can kick me right off.

It's not that I want material gifts--like other moms, I just want a little effort, an acknowledgement or expression of love. A home-made card would go a loooooooong way--that would make my whole day. But effort, apparently, is not what men--or baby-men, in this case--are good at.

Case in point, here's what I got for Mother's Day this year:

• A haircut (treated myself--yay, me!)
• A poke in the eye (four pokes, actually, from my overzealous optometrist).
• A full day of helping my ADHD son "write" his science report (more painful than the eye pokes).
• A new garden hose (I actually did ask for this one!)
• Attitude from said son at the farmer's market, because he wanted to carry kettle corn and not the basket of fruits and veggies. (Oh, and add a dash of mortification when a vendor who witnessed the whole scene asked Mark, "What day is it?" Yeah, got it, you're trying to help, guy, but now I'm even more embarrassed!)
• A 10-minute time out while I stewed in the car waiting for the kid to show up. (I'm pretty sure I was justified in leaving him and his bad attitude at the farmer's market--I only waited because I didn't want to come back)
• A whole lot of attitude from my brother who hosted Mother's Day brunch but apparently did not want to (he yelled at me about two different dogs--one of them his! NEWSFLASH: I don't even own a dog!)
• More attitude from my son, who did not want to get out of the hot tub, even though it was sending his blood sugar precariously low.
• An admonition from a party guest on why my diabetic son shouldn't eat sugar (even though it was the cure for the aforementioned LOW blood sugar).
• MORE attitude from my dearly beloved son when I asked him to clean up the yard clippings that afternoon, as previously agreed upon.

All of which left me feeling less than warm and fuzzy by the end of the day. I felt maternal all right, but more in the "I'm getting a belt to whoop somebody's butt" sense than in the "basking in love" one.

I finally gave up, and retired to my couch to watch American gypsy weddings with a handful of jellybeans. This day felt a lot like Christmas, and to give you an idea of how Christmas feels, we have a saying in our family--"It's not Christmas until Heather cries."

Then, just when I thought I couldn't get any grumpier, Mark appeared, and happily asked if I was enjoying my Mother's Day.

"No," I snapped.

He looked genuinely surprised.

"What part should I enjoy?" I asked. "The part where my brother was a jerk, the part where you whined and gave me attitude, or the part where you ignored me and the front yard clippings?"

His smile disappeared, and he slunk off to his room. I didn't think I could feel any worse, but suddenly, yelling at my only child on Mother's Day, I did. No wonder no one wanted to celebrate me on this day.

Mark was quiet for so long that I finally checked in on him. He was no longer pouting--he was napping peacefully on his bed. I guess I should be glad someone enjoyed the afternoon.

"I don't know what you expected," my friend Kelley said later, after I recounted my no good, horrible day. "Mother's Day is always a bust for you."

"I know," I said. "I keep thinking this will be the year it changes. My bar is set so low now that I don't even want displays of affection--I just want a day where no one's whining, complaining or being rude to me. Even for five minutes!"

But I guess that's the irony of the job. You don't become a mom because it's easy or appreciated--there's no instant glory in it. You work hard, nurture and care for everyone else and it never stops, not even on Mother's Day.

"I give up," I told Kelley. "Next year, I'm celebrating on my own. I'm running away to a spa day. I'll pamper myself!"

Kelley laughed, and said, "There you go!" She agreed it was a fine idea, even if it is diametrically opposed to the whole notion of Mother's Day.

But maybe it's not...the day is devoted to celebrating moms, not necessarily to spending it with kids. I don't think you can actually do both things at once, so next year, I'm not even gonna try.

If my kid asks where I am, can someone please tell him I'll be at the spa? Thanks!

My son the comedian...what a card

During our Mother's Day dinner, we discussed that no matter what the holiday, we hate serious cards.

"I hate those serious, flowery birthday cards," I said. "I look at those paragraphs of words in cursive, and my mind literally goes blank. I just wait a couple seconds, pretend I've read them, then open the card to see who it's from."

My mom and Shanda agreed. This was most certainly a funny-card crowd.

And apparently, Mark feels the same, because this is the loving card he gave me this year:

I wasn't sure what was more shocking--the fact he gave me this card, or the fact that my mom approved it (she took him shopping).

"Really, Mom?" I asked, pointing to the "rat's ass" comment. I couldn't even say the words out loud to my prim and proper mother.

But my mom just giggled and shrugged.

"What?" she asked. "He's heard worse."

I looked at Mark, who nodded in agreement. 

"I have heard worse," he said. He looked at me knowingly and I shot him back the stink eye.

I realized two things in that moment. One, that my son finally recognizes that even though they may sound contrary, my brusque tone and unconventional words actually are loving and supportive. (I do love you, Mark, even if I tell you to brush your damn teeth and put on some clean damn clothes--that is loving and encouraging in our family.) And secondly, that we've given up even the smallest illusion of propriety in my family, even on the most sentimental of days. It's out the door, a complete free for all.

Which also means that, yes, I'm a little worried about the birthday card my beloved son will buy me next month. So if you see me reading it silently to myself before sharing it out loud...just know there's a good reason.

Word to your mother

Yesterday was Mother's Day, and I'm never sure how that's gonna pan out at my house. Sometimes I'm feted with breakfast in bed and homemade gifts, sometimes all I get is attitude. Happily, this year skewed more toward celebration. 

My mom was in town, so I got her to myself for most of the day (sorry, brothers). After congratulating ourselves on being such amazing mothers, we treated ourselves to a nice brunch. Then it was home to relax, where I imposed a strict rule that we couldn't do any chores or cleaning. We pretty much succeeded, except for making dinner. (Unless we wanted Top Ramen--Mark's specialty--we had to cook a little. But we made Mark clean it all up.)

Mom and Mark did sneak off for a bit to buy me a present. Mark insisted he was not late, as there were still a few hours left in the day. 

Upon his return, he scrambled around, first searching for a gift bag, and then in the kitchen. He was hard at work on something in there, warning me to stay out so I didn't ruin the surprise. I happily complied.

My brother Smed and his fiance, Shanda, also came to visit. We welcomed Shanda into our little celebration, wishing her a happy Mother's Day, since she's also amazing--a loving, stable mom to my little nephew. She was so sweet, bringing us little rose plants and wine. We had one big happy mom vibe going on.

As soon as he finished wrapping my present, Mark handed it to me.

"Open it!" he commanded.

"I can't," I told him. "Not until after dinner."

He insisted I open it immediately, in case I wanted to use it. I gently refused, reminding him there's a gift protocol--it's not a present-ripping frenzy.

But when I did open it, I realized why he wanted me to do it before dinner--he wanted me to use the gift during dinner.

That's right, he got me a set of specialized beer glasses--different kinds of glasses for different kinds of beer. Some moms get flowers for Mother's Day, some moms get beer glasses. Apparently, I belong to the latter group. (And in related news--boy, does that kid know what I like!)

"He picked it out himself," my mom said proudly, and I couldn't help smiling. "He said you only drink out of one glass."

I do, but it's awesome--my special Samuel Adams glass, created specifically to offer "a full sensory drinking experience by fully showcasing Samuel Adams Boston Lager's complex balance of malt and hop flavors," according to the brewery. (So yeah, one glass...)

"Thanks, buddy!" I enthused. "This is great!"

"That's a really cool gift," my beer-drinking friend Shanda said, admiring the set. "The beers really do taste differently depending on the glass."

Mark also included a Bud Light Lime Strawberry Margarita in a can. I wasn't sure which glass to use for that one, but Mark said I couldn't drink it at room temperature. (Whew!)

"I'll get you a beer!" he said, excitedly.

I was completely full from dinner, but there was no way to get out of an after-dinner beer without hurting the little guy's feelings. So as he got a Sierra Nevada from the fridge, Shanda and I read the descriptions to figure out which glass to use. We were torn between using the pale ale glass and the craft pub glass--Sierra Nevada's technically an India pale ale, but it's dark golden in color, like the beer in the craft pub glass. We finally opted for the pale ale glass and darned if the beer DIDN'T taste better in the specialty glass!

And so I enjoyed my beer with my other gift--a marshmallowy batch of Rice Krispie Treats that Mark made. (Coincidentally, it's also his favorite dessert.)

I hugged Mark and thanked him, and gave another silent thanks as well, for this crazy kid in front of me. The one who drives me nuts sometimes, who pushes my buttons and makes me want to scream in frustration. But that's not all he does--he also makes me insanely proud, of his kind and gentle nature, of how much he cares about his friends and family (and cats), of how sweet and silly he is. He makes me laugh, often, loudly. He asks me thoughtful questions, and engages me in conversations that are both thought-provoking and hilarious, often teaching me just as much as I teach him.

He opens me up to all sorts of things I never thought I'd do or be interested in. He tests me, yes, but not just in a bad way--he prods me out of my stubborn Dinsdale ways, encouraging me to try new things, new flavors, new thoughts. He makes me a better mom, and in doing so, he makes me a better person.

So yeah, in a way, Mother's Day is about me. But it's also about my mom, all the love she gives me, and how much more I appreciate her since getting my own child. And it's about the kid who made me a mom, too. His best gift will always be himself. Because, funny cards and breakfasts in bed aside, the best thing Mark ever made me was...a mom.

A Mother's Day to remember

My life has been kind of hectic lately. Is it wrong to admit that all I wanted for Mother's Day was to sleep in late?

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?

Mom's Muffin Morning

"It's Mom's Muffin Morning!" my darling son exclaimed today. For a moment, I was touched by his thoughtfulness, until I realized he was excited because there'd be donuts. (He'd sell his soul for a donut.)

But the morning's event went swimmingly, much smoother than in years past. My friend Liz complimented Mark, saying, "I can't believe he stayed with you the whole time!"

I smiled, recalling the last muffin day fiasco. To avoid a repeat, I'd prepped Mark intensely before we even left the house.

"What are we celebrating?" I asked.

"You," he sighed. He started to roll his eyes, then noticed the steely silence in the room. "You!" he repeated, more enthusiastically.

"And why am I taking time off work today?" I grilled.

"To have breakfast," he said.

"With...?"

"Me," he answered. He's learned it's easier to suffer through an hour-long breakfast than a whole weekend of angry consequences for ignoring me in public.

"Good," I said. "And of course, the penalty for misbehaving or running off during breakfast is...?"

"I know, I know," he sighed again. "Penalty of death. Eat breakfast with you or die. I know!"

And so we went off to celebrate. Mark acted wonderfully, and was a perfect little gentleman. My heart swelled two sizes with pride.

After breakfast, we visited his classroom. Mark pushed his way past all the tables, and ended up at a solitary desk at the front of the room. It was right next to the teacher, pushed up against (and facing) the chalk board. I immediately smiled, because I knew exactly what that meant.

"Let me guess, you got moved again for talking during class?" I asked.

"Some girl was talking to me," Mark frowned. (He always gets moved because someone else was talking.)

"You better stop talking," I told him. "Or your next stop is outside!"

We watched a video of kids singing "You Lift Me Up," by Josh Groban, and then a montage of teacher's photos with their moms. My tough exterior melted, leaving behind a gushy, teary mess. As tough and strict as I try to be, I'm a sucker for emotional moments like that.

The teacher had the kids introduce their moms and say what they like about them. Mark went first.

"That's my mom," Mark said, pointing to me.

"What's her name?" the teacher prompted.

"Uh...Heather?" Mark said.

"And what do you like to do with your mom?" he asked.

"Play catch with the football," Mark answered. I giggled inside, because the football's too big for my little hand, and it wobbles uncontrollably when I throw it...which is probably why Mark likes playing catch with me, because it's funny!

The next activity was painting spirals using cool-colored paints. Mark and I worked together, creating an elaborate spiral, and I noted how relaxing it was to paint.

"Kind of like coloring, huh?" Mark said. I nodded--I never realized how calming it is to color with crayons until I got Mark!

The last activity was poetry. The kids all read poems they'd written for their moms, using the letters in their mom's name. Cue the tears, because they were filled with love and sweetness, proclaiming their undying love and gratitude to their moms, each of whom were deemed "the best mom in the whole wide world."

I couldn't wait to hear Mark's, but he was reluctant. He shook his head, whispering he'd read it at home. But I had to go to work, and I wanted to hear it! Finally, slowly, he stood and read it.

It wasn't as sentimental as some, but I loved it anyway. And I loved the toothy grinning sun accompanying it.



That's right, people. I do take it to the hoops! (Whatever that means.) But not sure I'm am as happy to be easy as pie... ;-)

From both of us

Yesterday, I celebrated my fifth Mother's Day. I'd planned to sleep in and eventually wake to the gentle sounds of breakfast cook ing. Or to my son smiling, bidding me happy mother's day, and smothering me in kisses. Or to rainbows and unicorns prancing by (hey, that was as realistic a wish as the first two!).

Instead, what I got was my brother, who kicked Mark awake, grunted, "Get your shoes on," and left.

They returned bearing my mother's special request breakfast -- donuts and menudo. I was feeling a little woozy from my friend Nicky's 40th birthday party the night before, and could've used some menudo myself, except that...well, it's gross.

After breakfast, all the m o ms opened our cards and gifts. My mother proclaimed herself the "root" mother, and reminded us that if it wasn't for her, none of us would be there. Really, she could've just said. "I want to go first."

She opened the first card, from my brother Scott, and I burst out laughing. I'd picked out the exact same card! (I told you my family all has the same sense of humor!)

My sis-in-law Mary went next. She read a beautiful card my niece Nathalie made. Then she read the card from my nephew Grant, who's in kindergarten. He proclaimed that his wonderful mom had brown hair (sometimes), was 14 inches tall and weighed 40 pounds.

Last came a card from Gabi, in third grade. Her card read, "Thank you for t e a ching me to eat h e a l t h y, even though I don't," and said she admired her mom's ability to always know what Gabi was thinking about. ("Root beer!" Nathalie shouted.) It was signed, "From your favorite child." I couldn't stop laughing.

Next was my turn. I opened Mark's card, which showed two little bears complimenting their mom. It devolved into them fighting, but here's what it said inside:

"Both of us?" I asked my only child. "You mean Good Mark and Bad Mark?"

Apparently, Mark needs to read the cards he picks a little more closely! (He picked out a gra duation card for his friend's birthday last week.) Mark's gift was a little ring holder he made in class -- I loved it!

He also gave me this homemade card:

"Now it's time to relax," I said, as the kids cleared the table.

"Nope, we have to make lunch," my mom replied. She explained that we were having homemade mushroom ravioli for lunch, and Mary and I were in charge.

"I have to COOK?" I asked. I don't like to cook on normal days -- I sure didn't want to cook on my special day!

"Yep," Mom answered. "Because you're the newbie mom." I did the math, and she was right. Dang it!

So cook we did. All three of us m o ms, all morning, while the kids played outside and my dad and brother watched the war channel on T.V.

"This Mother's Day is a rip-off!" I yelled at them. "You guys are coo king for me on Father's Day!"

My mom added insult to injury, forcing me to make the salad, too, and even set the table. I told her I wasn't coming home for my birthday, since she'll probably make me scrub the floors or clean the pool.

When lunch was finally ready, we popped open my mom's favorite champagne. She clinked my glass to hers, and smiled.

"Happy Mother's Day," she toasted, then added, "Newbie!"

Lunch turned out fantastic, and my mom was hugely entertaining throughout the meal. She downed her champers, and regaled us with stories of her bad Mother's Day. She told of her first Mother's Day, when she was pregnant with Scott. My dad took her to dinner, but forgot to make reservations. Every restaurant in town was booked, so they ended up eating in the coffee shop at a bowling alley. She also told us of the time my dad gave her the credit card and told her to buy herself something nice. Little did he know those four simple words would haunt him the rest of his marriage!

So yes, I woke up early, and yes, I cooked all day. But I laughed the whole day, and it turned out to be a pretty god Mother's Day after all.

Even for a newbie like me.

Becoming Mom

Yesterday I celebrated my third Mother's Day, and I have to say, they keep getting better.

It started Friday evening, when Mark gave me my first present -- a homemade keepsake box. I oohed and ahhed over it, but Mark didn't get it.

"There's nothing in it," he informed me. "It's EMPTY." He clearly didn't understand why his teacher forced him to give me a box with nothing inside. And he certainly didn't believe I loved it, no matter how many times I told him, because why would anybody love an empty box?

On Sunday, Mark brought me breakfast in bed, which my cats immediately tried to eat. I shooed them away and read my homemade cards, but Mark kept nudging my gift over to me. I could read the See's Candy logo through the paper. He kept eyeing it, and pushing it to me, until finally I ended his misery and gave him a truffle. He was ecstatic.

It was a far cry from my very first Mother's Day. That one turned out...well, not quite as well.

It had been a couple months since his birth parents' rights were terminated. He'd been calling me "Heather" up till then, and I waited before evolving into anything else.

But I realized it was time. Mark had lived with me for almost five months, and the whole "Heather" thing was getting kinda weird. People assumed we were mother and child, but introductions were always kinda awkward.

"Ask your mom if you can have a cookie," people would say, and Mark would yell out, "Heather, can I have this?" It really confused the other kids in his class when he called me Heather.

So about a month after he last saw his birth parents, I decided it was time. We were goofing around, and I told him I was changing my name.

"To what?" he asked, curious.

"To 'Mom,'" I told him. "From now on, I'll only answer to 'Mom.'"

He giggled and thought that was great fun. And of course, he immediately tested me. "Heather, can you tickle me?"

I looked around the room. "Did you hear something?" I asked him.

He giggled again and asked, "MOM, can you tickle me?"

"Certainly!" I cried and tickled him till he couldn't stand it anymore.

It was funny for the first day. He'd follow me around the room, calling me "Heather -- I mean, MOM."

It was a little funny the second day. By the third day, he was downright annoyed.

"Heather, when's dinner?" he'd ask, and I'd keep doing whatever I was doing.

"I only answer to 'Mom' now," I'd tell him, and he'd grit his teeth and say angrily, "Fine, Mom, when's dinner?"

After a few days, Heather faded away completely. He went from "Heather" to "Heather -- I mean, Mom" to just plain old "Mom." It was awesome.

By the time Mother's Day -- my first! -- rolled around, I was so excited. I'd worked long (almost three years!) and hard to get to this day, and I wanted to celebrate. I'm a MOM! I wanted to shout from the rooftop, but I realized that perhaps this day wasn't as joyful for Mark. I was sure he was missing his birth mom, so I tried not to make a big deal about it all (outwardly, anyway).

Mark presented me with a gift -- a photo of him smelling a giant Gerber daisy. It was beautiful, and I teared up immediately. "Thank you, honey!" I said, hugging him, and suddenly, his mood turned completely.

He grunted angrily and ran away. Just then, the doorbell rang, and in came some friends I'd invited over for dinner.

I couldn't wait to show them my new picture, but dinner and the conversation distracted me. I didn't remember the picture until dessert.

But I couldn't find it. It had disappeared, and when I asked Mark about it, he shrugged and walked away. I searched a bit more, when suddenly I walked past my new paper shredder and my heart sank.

I opened the shredder, and there on top were the tiny ribbons of what was recently my Mother's Day photo. My heart sank and I started to cry; at first, because he'd shredded the picture, but then because I realized so many of our "first" special occasions (Christmas, birthdays) ended up like this. For Mark, as a confused little boy missing the only family he'd known until recently, these were sad, not joyous, occasions. They were obvious reminders of what he no longer had. And though I knew he loved me ("just a little bit"), he felt disloyal to his original family, and confused.

And so I took it down a little. I downplayed the picture and played up dessert instead. That made him a little happier, but still, he watched me warily, even a bit defiantly. You are not my mother, I could almost hear him say, and I realized that today was not the day to wage that battle.

In fact now, three years later, I've realized it was never really a battle at all. I don't want him to forget his birth family; I never will, because they gave me the greatest gift of my entire life -- my son, Mark. For that, I am eternally grateful.

And so when Mark presented me Friday with a box -- an empty box in which he saw no worth -- I smiled. It wasn't thrashed or kicked in; it wasn't shredded or wrecked; it wasn't handed over with anger or disdain. Instead, it was painted red ("Because that's your favorite color, Mom") and lovingly decorated with plastic flowers and beads. And three days later, it looks exactly the same -- I checked the shredder all weekend, and found no box, no flowers, jammed in there.

It's funny how you measure love. For some, it's all about the big shows of affection. For others, like me, it's more about the quiet victories.