It's a sunny spring day in Seattle, and Andrew is in the kitchen working on a new cupcake project (they look like tiny hamburgers!!). We've spent our morning being ridiculously and wonderfully domestic, scrubbing our 730 square feet of home from top to bottom, folding laundry and leaving only to shop for food for the picnic dinner we're planning for Andrew's mother and step-father this evening. They're on a ferry right now, munching on popcorn and watching the city get bigger and bigger as they get closer to us. Andrew is the d.j. for our day, which means that Built to Spill is on the record player and he is singing/humming along. I'm not sure he's even conscious of it. This is one way that "happy" sounds, around here.
Tomorrow is Mother's Day, a holiday that can be a really hard one for people like me, mothers without children yet, women who long to be on the receiving end of the cards and flowers and ridiculous consumerist hoopla that goes along with this day. I have a lot of friends who are getting those gifts for the first time this year - who will be dressing their brand new bundles in tiny I ♥ my mommy t-shirts and reading sweet missives in their husbands or partners handwriting from their baby sons and daughters. I'll be spending my Mother's Day morning the same way I gladly spend each and every Sunday: with some of my favorite people, all of whom are other people's children. We will probably talk about their moms.
But I'll be thinking about my Mom. I can never hate Mother's Day, because I love to think about my mother. (Who does read this blog - Hi Mama!) To be honest, though, I don't need a special day to do it. I think about her all the time. This, to me, is the measure of a good mother - and mine is really, really good - that I cannot go a day without feeling the influence of her mothering in my life. I hear her when I talk to children, never using smaller words or a condescending tone. I see her when I look in the mirror in the mornings, going through my routine of tooth brushing and moisturizer. Not because we look very much alike - we don't - but because the motions I see myself make are the same as hers, I remember them from leaning against her vanity and watching her get ready, years and years ago. When I make grocery lists I see her handwriting in the way I make my Ys and Ns. When I pause and think before giving advice to a friend I hear her, too, pausing to think before responding to one of my childhood questions, of which I had many. All of which she took seriously, and answered as honestly as she could.
So don't feel bad for me this Mother's Day. I'm thinking about my mom, and hoping that I'll be as good at it as she is, when my long awaited turn finally does arrive.