Some while ago I suggested to my children that it would be fun if they were to write something for me that I could post on Mother's Day. No pressure, no guilt. No, really. None! In fact, there was so little that I totally forgot I'd suggested it. The children are with their dad right now, so they're not around to jolt my memory. Then, in my inbox a few minutes ago, I find the following from my 17-year-old son - the child who displays his relation to me not so much our dark brown eyes and firm jawline, but by our shared Memory Deficit Disorder. Hey, he remembered! (And I didn't!) Yay, Adam!!
Ok, so for mother’s day I was supposed to write something about Mum, who you all know as Mary P. Well, I’ve done the typical, incredibly well-organized high school student thing when given a writing assignment, which is to promptly leave it for later, forget about it, misfile it, find it, lose it again, spill a mysterious beverage on it, and then remember it the day before. Now, by that reckoning, I’m sort of a little ahead. Sort of. See, when I started writing this, technically it was two days before. But now three minutes have passed, and that’s no longer the case. I would go to bed and write this tomorrow, but tomorrow’s a busy day, what with errands to run and a wedding to go to, so now’s really the only time. [Yes, this is indeed exactly how he talks! I'm smiling as I read, hearing his voice in my head.] Well, that basically boils down to an excuse as to why my grammar and spelling may be iffy. Oh, midnight writing. Would that I could see less of you, and yet sometimes it is indeed unavoidable... Now then. Mother’s day. Things I remember about Mum. Let me see, I should probably start with a more serious story, so I figured this one would work. It’s about the first (and only) time I ever stole anything, such as it was. Here’s the scene. Little Adam is three or four (I don’t really remember the age, it’s just the memory that stands out). Now, at that age, I was expected to come along for grocery shopping, which I didn’t particularly enjoy, a fact which I always made well known. In retrospect, it was probably pretty annoying. Sorry Mum! [Nah. He grumbled quietly, but didn't whine or fuss or drag his feet. He just just evidently bored. Can't blame him - so was I.] Anyways, we were taking longer than usual, and Adam was getting tired and hungry. The store wasn’t the right place to sleep, so I decided to solve one of the two problems, which I figured would be easy, since I was in a whole BUILDING full of food! Now, I knew that I shouldn’t really be eating anything there until we’d paid for it, but I figured a few candies here and a couple green beans there wouldn’t go amiss. Things were going fine until we got to the beans, when Mum noticed what I was doing. Uh-oh. I was chastised, and even though Mum never raised her voice, I remember how I felt, and I felt bad. I don’t remember whether I was told to admit my sins to one of the people who worked at the Loblaws or if I decided on my honest own, but either way I ended up telling what I’d done, apologizing profusely, and crying the whole time. The guy said it was ok, and passed me back to Mum, but I felt so bad afterwards that I’ve never even felt the slightest incentive to steal anything, or even ever put any amount of serious thought into it again. Funny how the little things count, isn’t it? [He thinks it's a "little thing". I'm thinking you parental types might see it differently. Nice to know an event at three can have a permanent positive effect, isn't it?] Well, that was serious. Now for a less serious one. I don’t really remember this story, but I’ve heard it enough and with enough emotion that I’m mildly surprised that I lived through it. Mum was sitting on the couch, reading, and Adam was one or two years old, standing on the other end. [He was 16 months, and had been walking for only a month.]Adam decided to walk to Mum, which turned out to be harder than he thought it would be on cushions, which move under your feet. He promptly lost his balance, and little arms and hands flailed frantically as he fell forwards, trying to stop himself. He succeeded in stopping himself, but he did so by ramming two little fingers up Mum’s nose. Hard. Eye-wateringly, burning, sneezing hard. Those little fingers didn’t just go in, they went all the way back. I’m never really sure what to do when this story comes up, except maybe to grin ruefully and say “oops”. Not really much else I can do, I suppose… ‘bout that. Hey, I tell this story because it's hysterical. You're supposed to laugh - and you do. Good man. I think the moral of these anecdotes is that Adam is the fine young man he is today because of the Love of a Good Woman - me. Right, Adam? Or maybe it's that Adam lived to tell these tales only because his mother loves him very, very much. :-) Happy Mother's Day to me!