Over the years, I’ve received what you would call “normal” type Mother’s Day gifts, everything from hand-made cards, candy, flowers and clothing, from my children. I’m now a retired mother and my children – three daughters and a son – are raising families of their own.
My son has always given me the normal type Mother’s Day gifts, even poems he wrote himself, that I cherish. I especially like when he picks out a card and signs it himself. This year’s phrase on the front card brought tears to my eyes: “Mother’s Day is a celebration of every woman who has ever known what it is to love a child.” He later told me that was why he picked up this particular card.
My daughters happen to be impish and I’ve received some unusual gifts from them.
Like most girls, Kim, Tina and Mande, when youngsters, started their Mother’s Day treats with their newly-learned kitchen skills. Many years I was ordered to stay in bed. Although my “breakfast in bed” arrived late, it was appreciated.
First the younger girls, Tina and Mande, arrived at my bedside carrying orange juice and some soggy toast splattered in butter. Shortly, Kim arrived with my main dish atop my best cookie tray. On the dish were runny, scrambled eggs with a piece of very done bacon. How could a mother not eat everything in front of her, whether soggy, runny, or burnt while three eyes and happy smiles watched her eat the scrumptious meals? .
As my girls entered teendom, they earned some spending money baby sitting.
One particular Mother’s Day they insisted we all go to the mall and walk around. I agreed. It would be fun to look in windows and pretend we owned everything we saw.
While walking the mall, we came upon a booth where a girl was piercing ears.
“Let’s watch!” my girls yelled.
Why not, I thought. But it bothered me watching a six-year-old child having someone shoot a hole in her tiny ear lobe. I know I winced more than that little girl did when “the Piercer” shot a hole in her ear lobe.
I’m the kind of person who rarely wears jewelry. It’s not that I don’t like to see it on others, but on me, forget it! If I did dress up fancy, I still wore the old-fashioned clip on earrings. They satisfied me.
To my surprise, soon after the mother paid “the Piercer” for the work on the child, my girls grabbed my hands, shoving me in the piercer chair. “You’re next, Mom. This is your Mother’s Day present!”
I noticed the young mother and child were still hanging around watching me. I couldn’t allow a child that age hear a 35-year-old mother scream. I dutifully sat on the chair, cringing in total fear. I closed my eyes waiting for the attack. Within a short while Piercer’s gun blasted my one ear lobe and the then the other with loud thuds. It stung a bit but I must admit it hadn’t hurt as much as I thought. The girls now satisfied that I was now an “in” mother were overjoyed and we left for home.
Within three weeks of dabbing peroxide on my ear lobes, prior to trying to find these holes in a mirror, I gave up. No more! I had enough years of trying to get pieces of thread in a needle without going crazy. I succumbed. I gave up my status as an “in” mother. The girls would have to accept me the way I was!
I had divorced the children’s father when I was 32. After only one year of singleness, these girls of mine rigged up another unique Mother’s Day present.
I sort of knew something was going on. I just didn’t know what. Often, if I’d walk in the living room, if Kim was on the phone the conversation turned to whispers. At first, I thought it had to do with boyfriend talk. But one time I over heard the younger one say to Kim, who was chattering on the phone, “Sh! Mom will hear!” Then I began to suspect it wasn’t about boys, bit it was about me. Even if Kim wasn’t on the phone, I often heard the girls giggling together, but whenever I walked in the room the whispers started. I just couldn’t imagine what was going on.
In May, Mother’s Day arrived. The morning went by with zilch – no cards, no gifts, no nothing from my girls or my son. Usually, they couldn’t wait for me to get my present or cards. Today was different. It also surprised me no one asked me to go to their friend’s house. Not even my son. All four hung around the house.
It might have been two in the afternoon when the phone rang. Not one of my children ran to answer the phone, which was again unusual. Finally, I got up and answered the phone, glaring at the kids while I walked across the room.
“Hello,” I said.”Hello,” a male voice said back. “This is Nelson. My two daughters are friends with your daughter, Kim. I’m your Mother’s Day phone call, compliments of our children!”
“Nelson, yes, I remember you vaguely. You graduated with my sister, Gladys. You know for weeks I knew these girls of mine were up to something. Now I know why all this secretive stuff!”
We did chat a bit more and I thanked him for the call. He asked if he could call me again, this time on his own volition. I agreed.
After the phone call the girls were quite chatty. Kim asked, “What did he say? Did he ask you for a date? You haven’t gone out with anyone yet and my friends had a father that was divorced. We thought we’d get you a date.”
In time Nelson and I did have a few dates, but we never became any more than friends. But I do have my girls and his girls to thank for my very first date.
After my children married and became mothers themselves, we started taking turns choosing a place we’d have lunch together.
One particular Mother’s day, since I turned 60, the kids decided I needed one more “special” present. I guess I had to prove, once more, I can be an “in” mother if I have to. After lunch, Kim invited all of us back to her home. Kim’s husband had a 4-wheeler. My Mother’s Day present was a ride on a 4-wheeler. What’s a mother to do? Show ingratitude for a gift? I climbed on the back of this so-called 4-wheeler. A helmet was placed on my head. My hands instinctively clung to Dale’s waist like a magnet.
We rode into a nearby field, over bumps, through some overhanging brush. “Enjoy the scenery,” Dale yelled over the din of the roaring wheels. I tried my best to get a glimpse of the scenery, but we whizzed by so fast how could one see anything? Soon my 20-minute ride was over. We again headed towards the house. Upon coming into home stretch, I noticed Kim had a cam-recorder in her hand. Dale stopped. I’m safe, I thought. Thank goodness. Just as I was about to finish my thought, Dale said, “Hang on!” I did what I was told. He did what my girls had told him: Give her a “wheelie” (a name I learned later). The front of this 4-wheeler went up in the air and my body went backwards. I just hung on for my dear life. And just as fast as I had gone backwards, Dale dropped the front of the wheel on the driveway again. I did get off safely, but a bit wobbly. Dale turned to me, “I didn’t want to do that, but your daughters insisted it was part of your Mother’s Day treat. They said you wouldn’t mind.”
“I’m fine,” I said, “now that I’m on ground.”
I know how I struggled financially raising my children, so for years, I’ve tried to dissuade the children from buying me “things.” I wanted them to spend the money on their own family. What is more important, for me, is that we are all together on Mother’s Day. Mother’s now take turns choosing the place we gather.
Some children still don’t listen. A few years ago, Tina handed me a large gift bag. It was heavy. I couldn’t imagine what was in it. Once I stuck my head in, I smelled an aroma I love – peanut butter cups. Tina had given me enough peanut butter cups – one for each week – until next Mother’s Day. It seems I used to visit the grandchildren a few days after their trick or treat night and ask for a few peanut butter cups. They willingly left me have some. Now I had my very own for a whole year.
Since I’m in my 70s, I’ve been wondering if the children think I’m an “old fogie” whose done with fun and pranks. I didn’t have to worry. It’s all in the eyes of the beholder. Tina gave me a painted wine glass with the words: MOM ROCKS!
Carole Christman Koch grew up in Berks County and has been published in numerous publications. She has a passion for writing and has many stories from growing up on a farm to raising children to humorous stories about her and her husband to everyday stories to season stories and more.
