My Mother’s Day was not picture perfect. I did not relax in a massaging chair with an iced coffee and a book while getting pampered with a pedicure. I did not enjoy a Mother’s Day brunch with girlfriends while we laughed and sipped mimosas. I did not relish a few kid-free hours and some uninterrupted time to write.
Instead, I woke up that morning in Maddie’s bed where I had slept with her the night before. I had watched her toss and turn. I had worried. I had gently stroked her hair away from her clammy face. I had cleaned up her vomit. I had googled “food poisoning.” I was reminded in a very real way of the depth of a mother’s love.
I spent almost the entire Mother’s Day in the kitchen. I made appetizers and salads and chicken ka-bobs and pie. I burnt a lot of bacon and filled our entire house with smoke. I replaced the fresh bacon with store-bought Bacon Bits and laughed when Katie observed that “Daddy never burns the food, but Mommy always does.”
I sneaked off for a few minutes to read late in the afternoon. I snuggled up on the couch in the sun room and opened my Kindle. But my solitude didn’t last long. Katie quickly found me and snuggled up on top of me with her own pile of books. I closed my Kindle and my eyes, and I listened to Katie’s sweet voice recite story after story.
Soon, our house was filled with family. My mom and sister and nieces and nephews and sister-in-law came for dinner. The meal was delicious, and I spent Mother’s Day with the finest group of women I know.
Maybe it was picture perfect after all.