I wanted to write about Mothers’ Day, but what? My best? My worst?
The worst is easy. My daughter told me she’d married a marijuana grower three months before and chose Mothers’ Day to tell me. I heard glass break. That’s what happens when dreams for your daughter fall apart.
The best? My baby children, Alex and Christina, then ages seven and six, wanted to take me out for Mothers’ Day brunch. Their pick for our epicurean outing? MacDonald’s. Before we ordered, smiling and proud Alex and Christina poured the entire contents of their collective piggy banks onto the counter, all pennies, nickles and dimes. (I frequently “borrowed” the quarters from their banks for between pay check frivolities like milk and gasoline.) The be-pimpled clerk stared at the change in front of him as it it were cow droppings. I doubt he had ever counted that much change in his life. From the back of the kitchen came his boss-lady, a mature gray haired lady. She coo-ed and ahh-ed over both my bright eyed children, how kind and unselfish they were to pay for Mother’s breakfast, while she separated the nickles from the dimes. Pimple Clerk, caught between a levee of change and his boss, dug into stacking and counting. What a delicious brunch it was. Pancakes that tasted like hot paper towels but slathered with love.