by Corinne Wnek
Here it comes again, another Mother’s Day, and I can feel a little apathy in me starting to creep in. This happens because my family, like many others, has fallen prey to the commercialization of the day. There is likely to be some flowers and a Hallmark card followed by “What time is dinner?” I’m not complaining, but creativity has been replaced by predictability.
I’m just sentimental for the days when my daughter would stay up late to make a homemade Mother’s Day card for me. She would leave it on the kitchen table for me to find in the morning and there was always a reference to something she knew I loved. There were dancers, seascapes and flowers galore. That’s how I knew she understood who I was and what I liked in this world.
Once, when she was about nine years old, she got up early to serve me a Mother’s Day breakfast in bed. She lined a baking pan with aluminum foil so it would be pretty and filled a glass with orange juice. There was a bowl of cereal and a little vase with a silk flower in it. But she explained that I had to come downstairs for my coffee. She wanted to make me feel special and she did.
At twenty-six, my daughter is still very thoughtful and creative only now she calls 1-800-Flowers. She dictates what goes on the card and lets me know she makes the salesperson read it back to her to be sure it’s just right, because she still wants me to feel special.
Little does she know I don’t need an official day in May to feel special. When Jaclyn was born, I was over the moon and everyday became Mother’s Day for me. I haven’t come down to Earth since. I hope I’ve done a lot of good things for her as a mother but I’m sure I made some mistakes along the way, too.
Still, to have one of those macaroni cards again…
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