I started Mother’s Day, exactly two minutes after I’d gotten out of bed this morning, in a way that made other mothers sigh with jealously. I knew my fellow mother friends would be staring at their own husbands, asking, “WHY? Why couldn’t I have begun my day exactly like she did? It just isn’t fair!”
Because there I was, the envy of everyone, on my hands and knees, scrubbing up not one… but two!! Two!!! All the hallelujahs!… piles of cat barf off my bedroom floor. I used half of a roll of Bounty paper towels and a bottle of Clorox spray, along with a bobby pin, because some of it was dried and needed a chisel. The bobby pin has become the most useful tool since Harry Houdini and MacGyver showed us that it wasn’t just for holding hair in place. It can pick locks AND scrape chunks of yuck off your floors.
God bless cats everywhere, who throw up the contents of their guts on hardwood floors and continue living.
Hubs and the boys had nothing for me this morning, which… FINE. Just fine. I remembered to convince myself that their sweet smiles and the fact that we survived World War III over an incident known as THESE ARE NOT THE SHOES I WANT TO WEAR TO CHURCH, AND I CAN’T FIND THE SHOES I WANT TO WEAR TO CHURCH, SO I WILL BE THROWING MYSELF ON THE FLOOR AND SCREAMING LIKE A BANSHEE IN THE THROES OF CHILDBIRTH were all the Mother’s Day blessings I needed.
We went to church.
With the right shoes.
Our attitudes were probably not in line with the Holy Spirit this morning, as we stormed in the front doors, late, and dropped Thing 2 off at Sunday School. Thankfully, the sermon was delicious and wonderful and aimed straight at my heart with the fiery darts of ARE YOU LISTENING TO THIS? My thoughts calmed and I was transformed, and Mother’s Day was going to be wonderful, even if my trio of boys seemed to have forgotten.
Well, there have been forty-eleven thousand different commercials during the NHL playoffs this week proclaiming, “DON’T FORGET MOTHER’S DAY IS SUNDAY, AND THESE ARE THE CHOCOLATES YOU SHOULD BUY.” Surely, ONE of those commercials had gotten through Hubs’ subconscious, but apparently… no. Floating holidays that don’t have a specific set date have never been Hubs’ strong point.
After church was over… after my heart was transformed… after I realized that WHO CARES IF A PRESCHOOLER GOES TO CHURCH BAREFOOT?… Hubs gathered the troops and announced that he and four other husbands were keeping TWELVE ENTIRE CHILDREN at the church, where they would all be making pizzas and baking them in the church ovens, while their wives… THE MOMS… went to a posh restaurant in the city together, and then off to a movie.
Hubs and his friends pulled this same treat off last Mother’s Day, and not one of us five mothers considered the glory of a free afternoon to be something that was attainable two years in a row. Our men surprised us, and they surprised us good.
So, I sat at a table covered in a linen tablecloth, with candles and real silverware and items like FRESH LIVE MAINE LOBSTER and MIMOSAS on the menu. It was such a change from our typical restaurants, where everything comes wrapped in paper and cardboard boxes and served with a toy in a plastic bag, I almost didn’t know how to behave, but we quickly remembered how to do things at fancy restaurants.
The other four moms, who are all good friends of mine, and I sat there and talked and laughed for two solid hours, until it was time to drive over to the movie theater for another two hours of fun.
And all the while, our five husbands wrangled twelve (!!!) children at the church. They fed them homemade pizzas. They watched a Lego movie, played full-contact dodgeball, made up different tag games on they fly, beat the kids at foosball, and encouraged the children to RUN! RUN IN THE CHURCH HALLWAYS WHILE THE PASTOR ISN’T HERE!!
Those husbands… those dads… gave us the gift of time for Mother’s Day.
Apparently all the commercials during the hockey playoffs penetrated Hubs’ brain after all, because he didn’t forget that this was a holiday weekend. And instead of buying fancy chocolates, he homerunned the day with an entire afternoon of freedom for a small pack of mamas.
So… to all of my mother friends, HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY.
To my own sweet and precious mama and mother-in-law, HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY.
And to birthmoms everywhere, who chose to give the babies they carried inside their bodies life… who loved them enough to place them in the arms of a family who sobbed over their arrival…. HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY.