Mother’s Day

My mom has always worked Sundays, and Dave’s mother always spent Mother’s Day with his siblings; so most years, I AM QUEEN!  I get to pick what we will (or won’t) do; the only criteria: that we’re together.

As with most families, getting the ducks in a row for all to be present is impossible—but we give it our best shot.  Last week, somebody tried to finagle our daughter into taking his shift, conveniently neglecting to tell her it would be Mother’s Day; he almost succeeded before she got wise and told him to buzz off (not in so many words: he’s her boss, haha).

Life deals you a few bad hands, and mine is the month of May.  (And I’m not just talking about Prom.)  It’s our calendar:  within a three-week window we have Mother’s Day, our wedding anniversary, and my birthday.  So yeah, gifts are humble: a plant or some chocolate will get you in the door.  But I must say, so far this Mother’s Day my son-in-law Owns: he’s putting in a new cement walk for me!  Our youngest daughter is helping with the project.  She and I have been digging all week.  Oh, just try to ignore that I had to dig in the mud and slugs.  If I can, so can you.

They asked what I want to do this year; I told them I’m growing weary of being in house all the time: “Can we break out the barbecue?”  (Oh yeah—2nd criteria, Mom doesn’t cook. Duh!)

Sadly, we’ll have to settle for a phone call from our oldest daughter and son-in-law, and our two grandchildren.  They live near his side of the family—1,800 miles away from here; quite a trek for brats in the rain.  (Hey, that’s a double entendre!)

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