Mother’s Day is Bona Fide

By Bob Wire, 5-05-09

For this middle-aged curmudgeon, many holidays have become more about obligation and empty ritual than about heartfelt celebration. Mother’s Day, though, isn’t one of them. Mother’s Day is bona fide.

Everybody has a mother, and moms comprise the most important group of people in the world for several reasons. They are in charge (whether you think so or not), they are consummate problem solvers, and they know where everything is. So if anyone deserves a day of recognition for her life of sacrifice and effort, it’s mom.

I might even suggest that the holiday is expanded to a week or a month, but I don’t want to be making breakfast in bed every damn day. As it is, Mother’s Day falls mercifully on Sunday, giving the kids and me all of Saturday to get our shit together to properly honor the person who keeps this family from exploding into a spectacular fallout of dirty socks, chewable Benadryls, expired dog licenses and school permission slips.

A deluxe breakfast is de rigueur, and it’s the one meal I have mastered to the point where everything is done almost at the same time. So we’ll sit Barb at the head of the dining table (usually on a chair festooned with crepe paper and ribbons) because she’s not really into eating a meal in the same bed where we, uh, well, you know (two-tone whistle, obscene hand gesture). Then one of the kids will bring her a plate of eggs, grits, bacon, toast, etc., while the other brings a few hastily-wrapped gifts. If I’m not nursing a hangover, we’ll sing a goofy song to her. Then she’ll open her gifts, which are usually kitchen tools or maybe a package of vacuum bags, and we’ll spend the rest of the day doing what she wants to do. Barb typically will lead the family on a hike or a bike ride.

Then we wind up the day with a dinner of her choice, usually something on the grill (another of my comfort zones). I always feel like we come up short in the feting department, though, because Barb really deserves so much more. But she seems to enjoy our feeble gestures, and I think she gets the message that we all love her and need her desperately. Especially when one of us can’t find her soccer shin guards.

Every year we think back to when Barb became a mother, giving birth to Rusty in late 1996. She’d had almost nine months to make the transformation from bar-hopping, beer-swilling gadabout to grounded and responsible mother. This transformation was emotional, mental, and obviously physiological. So when Rusty burst through that butcher paper poster onto the football field of life, Barb was ready in nearly all respects. I, however, had no such physical change going on, other than the 15 lbs. of pregnancy weight I put on. I had to get used to the idea of becoming a dad, with nothing but my wife’s abdominal swelling to egg me on. I had no reason to quit drinking, no reason to take care of my health. I wasn’t the life support system; I was just the maintenance man. I’m still making the adjustment.

So this Sunday let’s all give the mothers in our lives the love and respect they deserve. Being a mom is a full-time deal, and it’s probably the toughest, yet most thankless, job there is. She needs to be honored, celebrated, put up on a pedestal. Bring her a cup of tea. Rub her feet. Give her the remote. Remind her how important she is. And then do all that stuff once in a while when it’s not Mother’s Day.

I’m going to go all out this Sunday, and try to lavish Barb with gifts and pampering all day. I’ll spare no expense, and I’ll try to fulfill her every desire. It’s important. She deserves it. Besides, Father’s Day is next month and I’ll be expecting a lot.

[Call your mom! And don’t forget to ask her to bookmark NewWest.net/BobWire. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.]

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