Memories of Mother's Day

This year, my son is deployed and probably won't get a chance to call me on this Mother's Day. There's no PX in his remote location, so I'm not expecting a card. But, thinking back through the past 21 years that I've had as a mother, I've never been prouder of my son, nor more content to be a Marine Corps Mom. Knowing that my son is one of the few and the proud . . . one of the best . . . . that is the best gift I could wish for. I have many memories of past Mother's Days that I will always remember and cherish. But several memories stand out as unique and completely unforgettable.

May 20, 1984 was my first Mother's Day. I loved every minute of being a mom and going back to work was difficult. The best part of each day was picking up my son and devoting my evenings and weekends to him. On the third Sunday in May, he was 4 months old and just starting to notice the outside world. We strolled through the local mall and another family stopped to talk. Our babies stared at each other and the other baby sneezed. Shane, for the first time, laughed out loud - not just a smile nor a quiet giggle but a definite guffaw. Another sneeze and he howled with laughter in his stroller. I thought it was the best Mother's Day gift ever.

In first grade, his teacher helped the children make cards and gifts for their mothers. Shane's Mother's Day package was accidentally picked up by another child on Friday afternoon and he was distraught. By the time I picked him up from school, he'd enlisted the help of the principal, custodian, and another teacher to help him track down the missing gift and make the switch. His determination and perseverence were typical - this was the child, after all, that hired his own babysitter when he decided that day care wasn't for him. (He went door to door in our neighborhood interviewing potential sitters - by the time I discovered what he was doing, he'd found a wonderful grandmother who was delighted to take on the care of my son for a few hours a day.)

When Shane hit middle school, he was a bit peeved to find that the only elective class to fit his schedule was Home Economics. His idea of a well-cooked meal was one he did not have to prepare . . . or clean up afterwards. However, he gradually became fascinated with the process of cooking and prepared several simple dinners. As Mother's Day approached, he decided that his gift would be breakfast in bed. As a single mom, I was touched but somewhat anxious that he would be alone in the kitchen.

In his usual style, he planned this event for weeks. One of his to-do lists mentioned locking the puppy in the bathroom among other things to remember. I went to bed at 10:00 on the night before Mother's Day. Shane told me that as soon as he had the kitchen set up for breakfast, he would go to bed as well. I woke up at 2:00 and heard noises in the kitchen . . . went in to find the table covered with cookbooks, the counters cluttered with bowls, pans, etc. and a fine dusting of flour over everything, including the floor, Shane, and the puppy. After offering to help (declined) and explaining why I do not own a pastry blender (a fork works for me but I did get one for my birthday later that year since his Home Ec teacher considered them essential equipment), I went back to bed. Shane told me that he had his alarm clock set and I was supposed to stay in bed until he brought me breakfast.

I woke up at 7:00 a.m. Sat in bed and read, mended, corrected homework until 9:00. His alarm went off . . . and continued to ring. We had to leave for church at 10:00. Finally, I tiptoed down the hall and peeked into the living room. Shane was sprawled on the couch, fast asleep, puppy curled up beside him, also fast asleep. I shook him gently. No response. Harder, and yet harder. Finally, he sat up and asked me to go get the tray from inside (!) the oven and a jar of applesauce. I brought back a tray with 3 small pastry shells, each with a lid. He filled each one with applesauce, handed me the tray, mumbled "Happy Mother's Day" and once more fell asleep.

He'd been up till 4:00 trying to find a very special recipe for his mom. He rejected the usual breakfast fare (pancakes, waffles) and finally came up with a unique and original plan. He made pie crust pastry, molded it around empty soda pop cans and cut lids to fit, made decorative impressions in the dough, baked them, and cleaned the kitchen afterward.

The pastry was . . . challenging to chew. I don't care for applesauce. That breakfast, however, was the most wonderful meal I've ever eaten as I sat on the edge of the couch, next to my sleeping son. I'll never forget it.

Six years later, he was a senior in high school and enrolled in the Marine Corps Delayed Entry Program. He told me to pick whatever I wanted to do for Mother's Day and I wanted to spend the day with him. So, we headed up to Portland, went out to breakfast, strolled through the downtown area, browsed Powell's Books, and sweltered. It was unseasonably warm for an Oregon spring. By midafternoon, he'd had enough of Portland and was ready to head out. However, I hadn't had enough of my son. Reaching our truck, I asked him what he wanted to do and his answer was, "Cool down". Then he fell asleep.

Two hours later, I parked, turned off the truck and as he woke up, I asked him if he was cool enough. Incredulously, he looked out over a snow-covered meadow. We were at Timberline Lodge, far above the snow line on Mt. Hood. We spent the rest of the afternoon watching the snowboarders and wandering through the Lodge. It's another memory that always makes me smile.

That next year, he was in Iraq where he participated in OIF I . . . the first Mother's Day that we had spent apart, let alone on opposite sides of the world. And, he waited in line for over three hours to call me. The phone call was 3 minutes long. I will never forget the sound of his voice . . . "Hey Mom? Happy Mother's Day!"

This year, I can't spend the day with him and I probably won't hear his voice. But I couldn't be prouder of the man he's become and I have 21 years of memories to hold me until he comes home next fall. We'll celebrate then.

Happy Mother's Day to all the moms out there . . . cherish your children for the joy they bring.

Posted by Deb at 02:47 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack