It’s Mother’s Day tomorrow.
It’s the traditional time to pay homage to those wonderful souls who brought us into the world, nurtured us through childhood, suffered through teenhood, and if we’re fortunate, are still around to dispense yet more wisdom and love in adulthood.
Hopefully, we appreciate our moms more than once a year.
I do, for many reasons, not the least of which being the happy fact she’s here, healthy and hale.
Bachelorhood was one of the times I appreciated my mother the most.
Or, perhaps to be more accurate, I appreciated how much I didn’t fully appreciate her when I was still in her daily care.
It started to sink in as I was standing in the empty kitchen of my freshly rented home, holding a basket of bread and salt that mom had given me.
It wasn’t just the kitchen that was empty.
Suddenly, all the excitement of living on my own didn’t seem so appealing.
It was tempting to take that basket right back to where it came from, and put the whole “moving out” plan on hold, say for about another 10 years or so.
However, I squared off my shoulders, and announced to no one in particular, and without a great deal of conviction, “I’m free.”
Little did I know…
The bread and salt lasted for about a day and a half. And then the first cold wave of reality hit.
The stove was missing something. A mother. Mine, to be exact.
Fortunately, over the years, among countless other patient lessons, she had taken the trouble to show me the operating end of a pot, and the rudimentaries of navigating the fridge and grocery cupboards.
Nonetheless, it meant I would have to get acquainted with the concept of cooking – not just on the occasional camping trip, but every night. After work. And speaking of which – those tasty sandwiches I used to enjoy? There’s the lunch bag, bucko. Fill ‘er up yourself.
There were all sorts of hidden culinary challenges that manifested themselves.
The toaster turned out bread that could be carbon-dated.
The boiled rice had to be jackhammered out of the pot. The spaghetti dispensed as a solid mass, not individual strands.
The bad news kept piling in.
The washing machine had similar operating issues. The mom who belonged with it had also gone AWOL.
And I came to discover that, unlike my mother’s laundry equipment, mine would accept six socks, but only return five.
Also missing in action was the emergency repair technician for blown buttons, separated zippers, and damaged egos.
Then there was the issue of the dust bunnies, which were amassing an invasion force under various pieces of furniture, and would occasionally send out scouts to test the defences.
The guarding force – the vacuum cleaner – had somehow been separated from its matronly commander.
Unless I stepped into the breach, all would be lost in a sea of grime.
Ditto the kitchen sink, which accumulated dirty dishes at an alarming rate.
There were times when I felt like tying a white tea towel on a cooking spoon and waving it from my broom closet bunker.
Fortunately, I had the immense sense to establish my forward operating base of freedom only 10 minutes drive from headquarters.
When required, I could regroup at the mother ship, so to speak.
Thank goodness, I still can.
