A s you might imagine, my Mother’s Day celebrations don’t really involve any theatrics or marching bands. Last year was one for the memory banks.
It started when I told Pat, my beloved spouse of many years, that all I wanted was a clean house. Do you suppose his reply was, “Wonderful, we’ll get right on that,” or “Great idea, let’s call in a maid service!”?
Nope. Instead of donning an apron or tying feather dusters on the dog and having him chase the cat through the kitchen, my Pat replied, “Oh! Well you had better hurry and get all that cleaning done today then.”
Although that doesn’t really sound romantic, I’m sure it was laced with love.
On the way to the Mother’s Day church service, our very own and not-so-little Little Charlie reached over my car seat and gave my hair a nice tousle.
“Charlie!” I snapped. “Please don’t pick on me today, it’s Mother’s Day.”
“That’s what I’m giving Mom!” Charlie then called out to his brothers. “What are the rest of you giving her? Because we all know that no one can top that!”
It was a beautiful service, and although our Huey leaned over at one point in time and said, “Today is like your birthday, but not really,” I did feel sort of special.
Special, up until Lawrence snatched my reading glasses out of the pew and imitated me during the responsorial hymn. “Don’t pick on me,” I whispered as I grabbed my cheaters back.
“That’s Charlie’s gift,” he replied. “Not mine.”
Oh, how they do spoil me.
My own mother has always been as strong and independent as they come. Although we picked on her from time to time, she taught us, by example, how to roll with the punches.
Mom has always had a beautiful sense of humor and a way of telling stories that kept our attention for hours.
When we were growing up, she ran the family like a drill sergeant, kept a clean house and handled household finances. Even if she had to grab us by the chin and give us a sprucing up that consisted of her tongue-dabbed hankie, she made sure her children were always well groomed.
Almost always, Mom held a job outside of the home. Whether she worked as a nurse, a bookkeeper, or in her own antique shop, she was her own boss. No one has ever told Mom what to do. They didn’t have to. She saw what needed to be done and she did it.
Somehow, in the midst of all of that, I don’t remember a time when Mom was too busy for any of us. She took us on bike rides, trips to the park and made sure we went to visit Grandma at least once a week.
She held us, nurtured us and made all of our bruises and bumps feel better. There wasn’t a hurt, physical or emotional, that she couldn’t make well again. Yet, she raised tough kids. She never fought our battles for us and more than once shoved us back into the ring and told us to stand up for ourselves.
Money was tight, but we never knew it. We had everything we needed and never wanted for anything more.
“How did you do it all?” I once asked her.
“I did what I had to do,” she said. “I did my best to enjoy it and I let the little things go. When things got hectic, I knew the important things were doing the dishes and keeping the kids alive.”
When I called Mom last year on Mother’s Day, she asked me how my day was going.
“They tousled my hair and stole my reading glasses,” I replied. “But then they made me steak and meatballs for dinner and when it was done, they did the dishes. The best part, Mom, is that each and every one of them hugged me and told me they loved me.”
“They pick on you because they love you,” Mom said. Then she said the words every mom longs to hear, “You’re a good mother, Lori.”
For everything … thank you, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].