I remember when I was about ten years old, I went to my mother’s office and she suggested that I write a letter to my grandmother. I wrote her about my dance class that week, and that apparently, I thought I’d “sucked.” My mother was not amused…
Anyway – it’s a word I’ve embraced. ‘Cause sometimes things just suck.
So, where to begin… I got to sleep in. That was good. Then I woke up to a slew of emails about our book launch and lots of things that were not working behind the scenes (like people’s ability to actually access the book). Ugh.
I promised my kids it would just be a few minutes… like 40… or 60. “Why are you working,” Myles asked, “it’s MOTHER’S DAY?!?!”
My husband made breakfast, egg omelets with fresh fiddleheads, ham and goat cheese. Lovely, right?
Until about an hour later when I felt the first wave of nausea. I hadn’t had eggs in a while, so my first thought was that maybe my tummy didn’t’ like eggs anymore. Until, I saw my mom, who was visiting for the weekend… green.
And then my daughter, curled up on the couch at 10am. Hmmm.
We decided some fresh air would be good. So off we went to the neighbor’s pond, in search of frogs and turtles to take our minds off of the rumblings of our collective tummies – with the dog of course.
Who, in a mad dash to catch his precious ball, ran head first into two wrought-iron statues of herons. My first thought was my neighbor’s beautiful yard, and I went to right the statues… to notice the blood.
Poor Merlin had blood pouring out of his ear. Those herons were vicious.
Our neighbor ran over with towels, and we worked to stop the bleeding – but every time he moved the cut opened back up.
I got him home and hosed him (and me) off, placed a towel around his ear, and brought him into the mudroom, where I thought he’d lay down… but instead he shook in the way only a wet dog can.
It looked like someone slaughtered a chicken in my mudroom.
Nausea + Scrubbing blood off of the walls = Sucky Mother’s Day
Not to mention that no one wanted the Indian food I’d been dreaming of for my special mother’s day dinner.
So I gave it up and took a nap. And moped. And was generally un-cheery to anyone in my immediate vicinity. By the time I woke up, my tummy felt much better… mmm, indian food. But apparently I was the only one who thought this was a good idea.
Now I am not a person prone to a bad mood. I’m generally a make the best of things kind of woman.
Not on Mother’s Day.
After a couple of “I want to die” moments from my husband (he ate way more of that omelet than I did), we decided an excursion into town would lighten the mood and give us something to do.
And suddenly I heard… “Kiva???”
I looked to see a woman who I didn’t immediately recognize. “It’s me, Jodi.”
A woman who I went to school with 20 years ago, a sorority sister, an old, wise friend.
And in that unexpected hug I felt myself soften. And feel so grateful for a few minutes of renewed connection.
I hugged my husband in a doorway of one of the shops in our little town and said “I am really having a terrible mother’s day.”
“I know,” he said, “how ’bout we get you some take out Indian?”
Which we did. And everyone choked it down, even though it was the last thing that they wanted.
I schnuggled with my kids and put them to bed. My daughter, brilliant as ever: “Mommy. That did NOT feel like a Mother’s Day.”
“I agree, Charlotte. Let’s do it again tomorrow.”