"Mom, Let's go!" I ignored that one.
It's was the second, "let's go" at 6:12 am on Mother's Day that turned me into a rabid dog. I had been chipper 'til that point, then I snapped. I had to remind my darling child that it was indeed Mother's Day, NOT Jack's Day, and to get his boney ass out in the car and wait, like I did, for 28 hours, for his arrival on Earth. I don't recall sticking my head up my ass, yelling, "Come on kid, let's go!"
By 11:00 am on Mother's Day, I had been to the Cole Harbour arena twice. And the Centennial arena twice. I went through 2 drive-thrus for 2 nourishing meals for the little darling. I picked up, and safely delivered 2 other smelly hockey players that did not pop out of my womb. Got gas (for the car). Picked up 2 steaming piles of dog shit. And made 2 beds.
What set of testicles invented Mother's Day?
Then it dawned on me. Gone were the days of the homemade greeting card. And I should have saved those pipe cleaner and tissue paper flowers. For the first time on a Mother's Day, I was the mother of a teenager.
So far, I am lucky. There are no outward signs of teenage angst. Yet. Maybe that comes with the pimples. I am keeping the conversations open, and in fact, hearing more than I'd like. Jack and I went for wings with 2 other boys the night before, where we discussed what happens at parties these days. Open and honest. It was horrifying to hear what happens, already, when young teenagers are left to do, what they think they want to do, without adult supervision. I'll tell you right now, I am so happy I am the mother of a teenage boy, and not a girl. Even so, poor Jack will never be allowed to attend a party unless I am in the middle of it waving a big sign that says, "Been there, done that".
Mother's Day got better. For dinner, we spread out newspaper and helped the local economy, eating lobsters the way they were intended – with a hammer, no utensils, and a shitload of butter. I am always a tad squeamish lowering the lobsters into the pot, thinking they could be someone's mother. But I do. By bedtime, we had watched 2.7 hockey games and consumed a half pound of butter. It was perfect.
At tuck-in, Jack became overwhelmed with guilt, laced with fatigue, when he realized he hadn't really put much effort into Mother's Day. No card. No gift. I reminded him that he was the gift. That spending the day together, even if it meant sitting in a rink, was the best gift a Mother could ever get (short of liposuction).
Not to worry. I am double lucky. I get to celebrate Father's Day as well. Maybe that's when I'll get breakfast in bed and a homemade card.
If not, I'll settle for a "Mom, let's go!" It beats the hell out of "see ya later", or "goodbye, cruel world."
halifaxbroad@gmail.com
