Last Mother’s Day I gave my new little human a big squeeze, and told him of the importance of the occasion we were observing.
Thanks to his debut, no longer would I have to feel guilt about the present I forgot to buy, or the card that would inevitably go into a pile of things-I-meant-to-mail.
Instead, I figured, I’d get to call my mom, thank her for her tour of duty, apologize only for my teenage years, and dole out some much deserved love. She’s always said the call is enough, but Hallmark and its kind say otherwise, so I fret.
But, being a mother, I figured, would let me off the hook. Instead of fretting, from that year forward I could lap up all the rewards from the one important day of filial piety in the western calendar. I’d passed the burden of being disappointing on Mother’s Day down to my little human.
Of course, a year ago I had no idea how little humans grew, let alone what motherhood was all about. Both are still a work in progress.
What I do now realize, is that on Sunday I’ll more likely be watching my little human lap up something from his dog bowl.
Currently he is fashioning his actions after our two pooches. He’s done things like put his cookies in a dog bowl to demonstrate a remarkable no-hands approach to eating. He’s fetched his nerf football with his mouth, curled up for a faux-snooze in a dog bed and joined the chihuahua as he barked through the windows at the many squirrels posed to make an assault on the homestead.
He thinks all of these new tricks are hilarious, while our senior citizen chihuahua clearly feels he’s suffering too many indignities at the hands of the new human.
So Mother’s Day, for me, will be nothing like I imagined a year ago. Refereeing my dogs is way more fun, anyway.
Being conventional has never been my bag. I don’t like roses, carnations—most of the flowers that you’re supposed to buy for these occasions.
I’m not keen on store bought cards because the whole concept of Hallmark is irksome. There’s something creepy about receiving a stranger’s loving musings. Chocolates get a pass on the Grinch-o-meter, mind you.
Point is—and I know that saying this puts me in a league of disgustingly saccharine humans—this year I realize that being a mom is an absolute gift in itself and when my little person wakes up in the morning and gives me a stink eye for disrupting his dog-nap, that’s all the Mother’s Day cheer I need.
For now. Who knows what next year will bring. Hopefully not a card.
Kathy Michaels is a Capital News reporter.
