Fr. P: “Why are the roses I bought you for Mother’s Day hiding on top of our dresser? They look nice, but wouldn’t you be able to enjoy them more out here in the open, where you can see them?”

Mrs. P: “So that they will be the first thing I see when I open my eyes every morning, of course! Just kidding. The children were trying to eat them when they were on the table.”

A mother’s work is never done, and for this unending outpouring of food production, sock location, and band-aid application, once each year she is celebrated by those she lovingly serves, and mothers everywhere spend the day with their feet up and a constant stream of tea and chocolate arriving from their perfectly tidy kitchens. At least, that is how I spent my Mother’s Day, of course.

I grew up celebrating my mother by parading into her room with my siblings each Mother’s day carrying an orange plastic tray with all her favorites. We were fortunate she loved peanut butter because it goes a long way covering burnt spots. Really burnt spots received a generous sprinkling of chocolate chips into the peanut butter as well. We also made her hot chocolate and poured orange juice ceremoniously into a wine glass so that we could drop the wine glass and break it, and spill the orange juice onto her bedspread. Every year. I thought that was why my parents had wine glasses. That was my best childhood explanation for the steadily dwindling set in the kitchen hutch. The breakfast itself was usually enough to feed an army of peanut-butter loving mothers, which was lucky since we ate most of it for her, so that she wouldn’t feel lonely.

Many homemade Mother’s Day cards, burnt waffles, and extremely well-planned activities that would involve No Work At All for my mom, it is now my turn to be covered in peanut butter and broken glass lovingly celebrated and served. Fasting before church takes a slight toll on the initial festivities, but Baby P was thoughtful enough to wake me half an hour before the alarm and I found that allowing the baby to squish a banana into your sheets while you bury your head under the pillow hoping for a few more minutes of sleep is a perfectly acceptable alternative for the time-honored tradition of the Mother’s Day breakfast in bed.

For best results on achieving the perfect day of relaxation and appreciation, do make sure everyone in the house can procure a head cold several days in advance. Tylenol, used tissues, and one of those baby nose vacuums look charming with flowers for the perfect table centerpiece. The head colds will also guarantee that no one will behave well for church and you will have a myriad of opportunities to show off your amazing patience with sniffly children and everyone else you encounter will practically red-carpet escort you out the door with best wishes for getting plenty of rest all afternoon!

I believe that Fr Pickwick said some Very Nice Things about mothers in his announcements after church, but I couldn’t really hear because he also was preparing to hand out carnations and a Sweet (but miffed) Pickwick was questioning me intently about the flowers and why she wouldn’t be getting one.

“I want to have a flower too! Why can’t I have a flower? Why are you getting a flower, Mommy?”
“Because I work hard to take care of you.”
“But I work every day like a slave picking up toys and you can do whatever you want all day long because you have a computer and do not have to go to bed! I really want a flower. Can I have your flower?”
“No.”

After getting home from church, Fr Pickwick offered me a rare treat: why not just go out for the afternoon on my own, get out of the house for a bit, do whatever I like! It sounded great, but unconsciousness sounded even better so I took a nap. So did he. So did exactly none of the younger generation of Pickwicks. The house is still recovering from the adventure.

We put the slaves to work tidying up, and then took drastic measures for dinner: Popsicles for all the Pickwicks! (I might have eaten mine behind a locked bedroom door. With my roses.) Though, I confess, I did consider just calling my mother to come make supper. She’s the real expert on how to survive have a great Mother’s Day!