I shared an essay of Anna Quindlen’s Mother’s Day thoughts over at Moms@Work, but here are some of my own.
It’s late as I write this. I should probably pick up my book as a reliable prelude to falling asleep, but I have a coupon for a nap that I can cash in, as necessary. The coupon, stapled together with a half-dozen others, was one of my Mother’s Day presents. I’ve already used one. I went with the “Mother’s choice” and requested a little assistance with vacuuming. Apparently the coupons are valid because it (he) worked and I returned from my run to find the vacuum out and plugged in. It may even have been turned on.
It’s been a sweet weekend, kind of watercolored feeling. Friday was my Griffin day – lacrosse, fried chicken, a new favorite movie, his physical self present in each of those activities. Like the two brothers he is sandwiched between, he has his own personal refrain which has inspired me to nickname him “It’s not my fault.” Like the eye-roll he mastered at age 11, he uses his mantra a bit self-consciously, knowing his lack of responsibility only confirms his position as man-boy.
There was a late morning soccer game, in a rain that didn’t relent until the kids were sodden and soaked with their own ability to tough it out. My little guy, Mr. “I’m lazy,” ran that slippery field like nobody’s business, a constant smile on his face. When he finally gave in to sleep, much, much later, he did so with happy satisfaction.
And Herr “I don’t know,” the oldest of the Lilly boys, finished the weekend with a solo trip to NYC, conceived and planned by himself. He promised not to talk to strangers and despite his thoughtfulness, I asked him to not travel to Bleeker Street to get coffee for me from my favorite place. The surprise of a dozen roses, prior to our departure for the train station early this morning, was evidence enough of his ability to plan.
My three sons, I don’t know, It’s not my fault, I’m lazy. I’ll keep ‘em.