No, wait, I have pictures:
Although I think of myself as the sort of person who doesn't celebrate Mother's Day, any more than Valentine's Day, I have to confess that I was no end tickled this morning to be presented with a bag of excellent coffee--just in time, too, as I had less than a single scoop left in the old bag & was about to be reduced to drinking Peter's Kroger-brand instant. Nor was I rendered unhappy after breakfast when Henry led me into the living room to find three potted plants (two of them warranted indestructible, the third a gorgeous orchid) and two packages, one marked from Henry and the other from James.
Henry's, as befits a boy who loves nothing--NOTHING!--better than to dig in the dirt, was a book about edible container gardening.
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| Now grow, seeds! |
James, who is an endlessly good sport about being swaddled in woolens, had selected a knitting book.
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| Don't be distracted by the pants; that's a hand knit vest on top. |
To put the cap on this Spartan nonobservance of a Hallmark holiday, Peter called me on his cell phone, revealing the hiding place (tucked behind Julius Caesar) of MY new cell phone. Long though I have resisted, having children--and worrying about them--has finally won me over to the 21st century.
Later in the afternoon, Mom brought over a beautiful Kathe Kollwitz etching, Mutter mit Kind auf den Arm, which had been a gift to her from Jane and Andre and which had hung in her bedroom when we were children.
Peter and the boys and I then went for a walk at Lake Griffy, where we spotted a frog, three caterpillars, innumerable chipmunks, several geese couples, and a snake. Half of our party spent a longish time chucking rocks into a glinting and babbling creek, while I got in three rows of knitting, and a little quiet contemplation on the human condition, and the deeply disorienting coexistence of joy and heartbreak.
All in all, not a bad way to not celebrate the day.
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