Mothers

Whether she is alive or dead. You talk to her or you don't. She's biological or adopted. Everyone's got a mother. Sometimes two. We should wake up every morning and thank them for our existence. Lest we forget, restaurants and flower shops bring us Mother's Day in a convenient one-serving-a-year one-size-fit's-all package.

I woke up to a glorious sunrise in the hill country. God Herself had teamed up with Hallmark to bring forth a beautiful day. And then carefully so as to let sleeping mothers lie, I set off to the nearest grocery store. After hurriedly selecting the meats and fishes and spending the rest of the morning picking three good bottles of wines (two to drink while cooking and one to share with Nicolle over lunch) I was told by a feelingless woman who was obviously not a mother and wasn't born of one that it was Sunday and Mother's Day notwithstanding I could not buy wine before noon in Texas.

Crestfallen but laden with groceries and chocolate dipped strawberries I returned to Carols and started cooking. Then Vivian and Evan woke up and we gave Jo her Mother's Day cards and nick nacks. For some years I have favored giving Jo a large picture frame with photos of her with the rugrats. Vivian is getting old enough to start making her own cards so we had spent an afternoon in Austin picking twelve photos of Jo and the kids. We stuck them to poster stock and Vivian wrote in her lovely cursive hand and we made Jo a card.

The kids played. We ate. Then Evan and I and my dad napped in the most un-Mother's Day fashion while four mothers cleaned up. I love my mother and the mother of my children. Happy Mother's Day, Ma's.