Monday, May 4th, a moist morning, not unlike the early morning eight years ago when Blake and I headed out to the greenhouse to work with some of our brain directed to the business of selling flowers, but all of our heart a few miles south where Ann and Matt waited for the arrival of the newest family member.
Today we make a stop at Casey's to pick up a dozen doughnuts, including the flower shaped ones we know are Lizzie's favorites. As she blows out her doughnut birthday candle, I think: is there anyone with better reasons to celebrate Mother's Day week than I?
Forget the whole greenhouse thing...Yes, for reasons both natural and man made, we anticipate a string of days jam packed with deliveries to landscapers, fund raisers, garden centers, and all matter of other ephemeral customers that appear like earthworms after a rain when the irresistible urge to dig and beautify comes over the populace.But that meme is so commonplace as to be cliche. This week in May means more than corsages and coleus, ageratum in a Dixie cup or treating Grandma to a buffet after church.
To me, Mother's Day is the exclamation point at the end of a week when, eight years ago, this mom became a grandmother again....and again... and again... a momentous occasion and really quite a bit over the top in terms of Mother's Day gifts!
Sometimes Millie's birthday falls on Mother's Day too!
And then there is my own mother. As a youngster, I thought my mother could do everything well; she cooked and baked and sewed and cleaned. She painted and took pictures; she helped with Sunday school puppets and Girl Scout badges. These were accomplishments that were important and impressive to a little girl.
When poison ivy made her legs a mass of miserable blisters, she didn't stay home from our class field trip to the Planetarium...no, she whipped up a long gathered floral skirt and carried the look off with aplomb. My mother didn't join the work force until I was in high school, but in ten years, she was the director of personnel. She's been my father's right hand man for nearly sixty years....together they proscribed my more foolish activities when I was growing up, but never discouraged my imagination. My mother could make me a Winnie the Pooh...and explain calculus...develop photos in the kitchen and plant a garden tapestry like Monet. My father always told my sister and me she'd be perfect if she could only sing like Elly Ameling.
I can't sing either....
......... unless it's a rousing chorus of Happy Birthday....