Easter is over, along with the wedding of the decade. I’m ready to focus on an event a bit closer to home, Mother’s Day. The twenty-four hour period dedicated to honoring the woman who raised me, changed my diapers, waited up during date nights, planned my wedding reception, help tend my children, and generally speaking, is still my confidant on all things important in my life. This year, I realized something profound. Twenty-four hours, or one day out of 365, is a miniscule amount of time to remember or honor this woman. Assuming she lives to 90, that’s 20 days out of 7,300. Yikes.
|Mom at 70 w/P-dog (feb '11)|
Do Vera Wang flowers created especially for mom's best express the undying gratitude for teaching me how to stand up for myself in class? Don’t think so. And I’m not so sure a Mother’s Day charm bracelet represents how much her example of commitment to the principles of obedience, faith, and perseverance over all odds does her justice, despite the good marketing hype.
Certainly, no card can capture the hilarity of Mom’s never-ending quest for a healthy mind and body. In my pre-pubescent years, this included her discovery and placement of silver, cardboard metal triangles in the corner of each room, shoving the twenty-five cent pieces in between the molding. This graduated to to her wearing new-age medallions with some sort of Egyptian thingy in the center to the Birkenstocks and homeopathy during my ever so conscious teenage years. And certainly no modern woman has worn a Chanel suit and Ferragamo pumps with her medallion during the day and Birkenstocks at night better than Mom, all in search of the unification of body, soul and getting rid of all that is toxic in this world.
In search of…
One year, I got Mom a watch, but it was painful for both of us. I wanted to purchase her a horridly expensive piece with lots of diamonds, and was disappointed out when she informed me that “the ostentatious stage in her life had passed.” A watch was a timepiece, she went on to explain, not a tiara, to be called out and displayed. It was to be worn without fanfare. This year, I was concerned about what to give the woman so precious, so dear to my heart. Yet with five siblings, my desire to be unique in my giving had not quite entirely dimmed.
“What do you want?” I asked, pleading with her to put me out of our misery. “To see you more,” she replied. She’s seventy. A veritable spring chicken compared to Hef.
During the recent trip to her home, I anticipated Mother’s Day, bringing chocolate, her favorite fingernail polish (non-toxic Butter from London) and myself. As Rog advocates, ‘give the receiver what they want, not what you want.” My presence satisfied her request. The chocolate didn’t hurt either.
|3 generatoins of Swedes.|
Here are a few of my ideas for mom’s….
The cook-a breadboard with mineral oil
The gardener- a seed basket
The musician- a player from Best Buy that blasts music out anywhere from any device (for cheap!)
The reader- the latest gadget(s)
The athlete- a spring outfit
The lounger- a spa trip (mother daughter/mother whomever)
The tv watcher- tivo, box set of favorite cds