When you hit the age of somewhere around twenty five to forty, you hear hangovers can last upwards of two full days. This hangover I’m speaking of has nothing to do with alcohol. It’s about all those mothers we have to please on Sunday. It’s exhausting making the one, and the other ones you love so much, feel that love.
I only have one mother. Her name is Margaret. She is an exceptionally special person. Yet, men and women alike choose to make phone calls to other mothers who have made a difference in their lives. It doesn’t always have to be the one carrying you around in her belly for nine months, shooting you out of her hoo ha, and then still takes care of you and her other twelve children forty years later. You may have outlaws…..sorry, in-laws visiting you on that weekend. It may be your mother in-law and Grandmother in-law. (Two wonderful people) They only require two things: Breakfast and Scrabble. This is where a girl like me becomes a man. I lay down the (in) LAWS.
Capable of convincing anyone on a Sunday Mother’s Day that all restaurants are closed on said day, I am equally capable of making them a hearty breakfast in our humble home for less than ten dollars and less than a thirteen hour wait in line at an “I HOPE I never eat here again”. It’s a famous chain. My pancakes, bacon and eggs take a mere twenty seven minutes. This makes the mothers happy, and Ben a happy man. Then, I beat the hell out of them in a friendly game of Scrabble.
Church: Also closed on Mother’s Day. Most elderly women don’t want to believe this. In my world, Church is always closed on days such as Christmas, Easter, weddings, and most Sundays. I’ll make an exception for a funeral.
Cards are really nice, but you have to leave that for your one and only mom. Again, this is my world. Phone calls are far easier than writing a sarcastic letter to your true mother who deserves so much more. The letter I sent my mother only cost HER sixty five cents. I placed the incorrect postage on the letter. The mailman did deliver it ONE FULL DAY before Mother’s Day. He just wouldn’t give it to her before she scrambled around looking for sixty five cents. Now, I have great respect for men and women who deliver mail in rain, snow and are willing to charge my mother, (eighty five years of age, mind you) extra cash because a letter weighs over four ounces. She paid for the extra postage, but made the postman, holding this heavy letter, wait about four minutes. She has a great sense of humor. Evidently, he was none too pleased with the weight and wait. What the postman forgot to do, bless his heart, was open the mail to see if there was any money enclosed. Indeed there was. I also included with the letter thirteen dollars, representing mom’s thirteen children. She called me on Saturday, and she couldn’t stop laughing. It is the best medicine, and it made my day.
I recovered from the weekend hangover.