I sent both sons who lived out of state a text message informing them of my plans to fly in for a visit. My words ended up less clear as I intended. “By mums dag,” Cheezy, the youngest and still in college, texted, “did you mean you’re coming on Mother’s Day?”
Motherhood, a most treasured event, made for fond Mother’s Day memories. Years ago, after awakening to a shrill hum of “I’m gonna tell” and “You’re stupid” over the clanking of pots and pans, my foursome had marched into my room. One carried a slice of toast dripping with jam. Another balanced a bowl of cold cereal and milk. Still, another, with toothless grin, held a vase of wilted flowers. The last one’s chubby hand shoved a crumbled construction paper card with crayoned hearts and globs of dried glue sprinkled with glitter. Hallmark couldn’t have said Happy Mother’s Day better.
Sure there were the failures — a waffle iron oozing half-baked dough, egg remnants fused to fry pans, and a counter layered with burned pancakes. But cleaning never bothered me on that holiday.
Today when I emerged from the plane, two much taller boys met me at the passenger drop-off area. When I stepped in to the duplex, a waffle iron oozing half-baked dough, egg remnants fused to fry pans, and a counter layered with burned pancakes awaited me. Just kidding. A Hallmark card had replaced the handcrafted one from years before.
On the way to brunch, Cheezy asked, “Were all the hours of labor worth it?”
Buried visions of agony on that flat cold delivery table surfaced. Extra chubby with Cheezy, my water had broken four weeks early. The hospital admitted me (accidentally to the mammal rescue unit). While I writhed in pain, through the glass window in the door of my room, I saw my handsome OB practicing golf swings. My labor pains weren’t coming speedily enough for him. I guess he wanted to be on the greens. He came into my room and asked, “Are you sure your water has broken?” he asked. “Let me check.” I hated being examined. But if it meant I could get it over with, he could have paraded me naked in the parking lot. Childbirth was the only event that caused me to completely abandon my shyness.
“You have a lot of fluid,” he remarked. He poked the membrane with a steel rod. Water flooded everywhere. It gushed out as if there were a giant leak in a dam. It spurted and splashed off the table and all over the doctor. Gallons and gallons. As he exited the room, his shoes sloshed. Served him right for putting while I panted.
Hot Wheelz’s birth had pained me the least. I slept between contractions. Mom’s saying, “If it’s free, you just haven’t been billed yet” came to mind. He cried for six months nonstop. Purple crying they call it now. Before that label it was just called “really annoying.” Early on, Hot Wheelz, the Enforcer, had had his own idea how things should be.
“Yes,” I answered, smiling. “Almost every minute of it.”
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