Mother's Day

I would prefer to be the sort of person who doesn't care a bit about Mother's Day, but the fact is I really like being feted by my family. I hope I never turn into the old woman stewing over the flowers no one sent me, but god only knows what I might come to.

At any rate, today I had no grounds for complaint, however unreasonable. I was surprised at breakfast with a perfect mix of presents: something the whole family stands to benefit by, something improving for me (it's both annoying and encouraging that Peter believes I can organize myself into writing a bestseller), and something purely indulgent. Henry and James and I dug up some raspberry starts to take to Mom, and Henry helped her plant them. And this afternoon...

...I got to lounge in bed reading an enthralling book...

...and then to make shepherd's pie for supper at a pottering pace.

Too many people I care about are spending their first Mother's Day motherless this year, and as I know from the infuriating lousiness of Father's Day, it needn't have been a holiday observed in one's particular family to hurt like hell. It might escape my nearest and dearest, with whom I am far too often tetchy, but I am thankful--only the word doesn't cover it--down to the grubby soles of my feet for my sleepless, tearful, mud-crusted, transforming, and surpassingly sweet experience of motherhood. And I am equally grateful for my own stubborn, moralizing, cranky (I come by my tetchiness honestly!), nutty, wise, and loving mom.