It's kind of a surreal weekend. Looking forward to days of pampering from Rich and extra hugs from Charlie. Yet hearing people at work or in the store talking about getting together with their Moms for this holiday stings. This holiday, that I admittedly took for granted all those years, suddenly fills me with regret. That I just sent a card, gave her a call. Made sure someone had bought a cake back home.
But now, now I wish she were here. I would be in Michigan. There would be a catered brunch and beautiful flowers and lovely gifts. An occasion to dress up and celebrate. She would hate all the attention but secretly love all the fanfare of the event.
Yet, maybe every day was Mother's day for my Mom and me. When we did get together, there was fanfare. Nice restaurants, shopping, I remember the Christmas I bought her this little Coach coin purse. She literally wore it out, stuffed all her receipts in it, pulled it out of her purse every chance she got. Because she'd never buy herself something like that. I made sure we had long lunches sitting out in the sun. That she always, always had her favorite iced tea, a comfy robe, a good place on the patio to read her books while I was at work.
I called her every single day. 365 days a year from the time I left home. Who can say that? I lived 2500 miles from my Mom but if I took a Sudafed and switched from sweatpants to pjs, she knew it.
I just wish she were on the other end of the phone today, saying thank you for the lame card I sent her. And telling me about the sales at Wal-mart. And listening to me drone on about the dirty grout in my bathroom. And just being my Mom.