A few days earlier, my husband looked at the calendar, and then up at me with slight alarm: “It’s Mother’s Day this Sunday, what do you want to do?”
I am not a hearts-and-flower type who expects gifts, but even still, my husband feels an urge, annually, to mark the occasion. He’s proud that I am a mother to our son, and I’m proud he’s proud.
I considered. That day, our son, who has constant medical issues, has a doctor’s appointment, one we have to travel to two hours by car. I loathe driving. My husband therefore drives. The doctor, herself a mother, also holds special weekend hours so parents like us, whose children’s medical needs often overflow the bounds of normal days and weeks, can work in a visit in an atmosphere pleasantly detached from the frenzy of the workweek. Our son’s school, which co-ordinates with his doctors, has been inquiring when he’s going to see this particular one next, and when I let them know the date, they exclaimed, “But that’s Mother’s Day!” as if that somehow couldn’t be.
For me, I couldn’t ask for anything more: a day my husband and I spend for the sake of our son, made possible by another mother who works to make our lives a little bit easier.
I have friends who actively solicit the cards and brunches and flowers starting when they were pregnant. Nothing wrong with that, it’s just never…
