Yesterday was Mother’s Day. The day started out with me waking up far too early for the time of night I went to bed the night before. I had gone with our neighbors (The Bob stayed home for a variety of reasons including but not limited to a lack of child care options) to a gathering for another set of neighbors who will soon be relocating to Maryland. We went into Boston to a place called Gaslight, which was loud but nice. I had been at a birthday party with Cooper for one of his friends from school just before going, so I had eaten pizza and ice cream and didn’t need to order more than a glass of wine and enjoy my friends’ company.
As the evening wore on, it became apparent that the neighbors I drove with were, well, drunk. So I said to the husband, “Am I the designated driver?” to which he responded by handing me the keys. The good news – his Accura is a nice ride. The bad news – I had to be the heavy and almost drag his lovely but seriously inebriated wife out of the restaurant at 11:15pm and try to keep her from flashing her tatas to the entire bar on the way out. That gal is a GOOD TIME for sure. She is quite hilarious actually, drunk or sober. What was supposed to be a quick evening out to celebrate with the neighbors became a repeat of many of my younger days, when I was the only sober person in a group of happy but silly and drunken people who all think that, after 5 cosmos it would be a GREAT idea to order shots, and then someone suggests going dancing and the sane and tragically sober person who is suggesting that if you are in charge of Mother’s Day brunch tomorrow at your house, at 9am, for all 25 members of your immediate family who live in the area, you might want to leave now before you get MORE drunk, is such a an ol’ stick in the mud no fun party pooper pants.
No one actually SAID that, but for anyone who has been that sober person, you KNOW THE LOOK.
Anyway, I am normally unconscious, in my bed, by 10pm most nights, so getting home and in bed at 11:30pm was LATE for me. We planned on going to brunch at Mel’s, this great diner type place, first thing to beat all the other families with the same brilliant idea, so off we went at around 7:15am. We had a very nice breakfast, and not once did my child say “ALL DONE” and then insist on leaving. He was not interested in actually eating, but he was having a good time.
After that we went to Target, as I needed to pick up a gift card for my work study student who is graduating next weekend. Cooper LOVES Target, the place where all things Spiderman and Iron Man live. He immediately began asking for the Iron Man items he has been coveting since seeing them in a catalog. They involve a helmet that completely encompasses the head (a VERY important aspect to masks and helmets, according to Cooper), doohickeys you put on the hands that light up and an arc light that goes on the chest, that look like the repulsers that Iron Man has. Target sells all of these items, and after perusing them, I asked The Bob what, if anything, did he feel we should purchase for Cooper while we were there. The option of leaving without anything was real, but did we want to consider buying any of them?
We decided, since they were all on sale, to purchase the helmet. It was what Cooper wanted the most out of all of them. On the ride home I unpacked and assembled it, and he was thrilled. We arrived home and he ran in the house and was walking around the living room being Iron Man, when he turned, put the visor up on the mask and said to his father “It’s perfect.”
With that one little statement Cooper pretty much summed up my Mother’s Day experience. Who doesn’t want to provide, if at all possible, that item that fulfills your childs’ aspirations, whether it is for a plastic helmet with eyes that light up and a British voice that makes statements like “Iron Man, return to Stark headquarters immediately” and then makes rocket noises, or something more lofty.
Motherhood. It is a lot of things, from frustrating to joyous and everything in between, and for at least a few hours yesterday, it was perfect.