I am lying in bed, drifting in and out of consciousness, having stayed up way too late the previous two nights, when I hear voices. ‘Okay, I need you to open the door,’ J directs his oldest son. I smile, despite the fact that I can’t open my eyes. ‘Open the door,’ J entreats. Another smile on my face.
The door is pushed open and in walks my trio. Poor J balancing a heavy tray in one hand and a babe in the other. ‘It’s Spring,’ G shouts. ‘It’s Spring.’ Is this a quote from Babar? Or is calling Mother’s Day ‘Spring’, like celebrating Solstice instead of Christmas?
As I struggle to sit up, I’m handed a tray with french toast, bacon and freshly squeezed orange juice. And a baby. And a card. And lovely yellow calla lilies.
J hasn’t bought me a card since we were dating. He always makes very elaborate cards in the wee hours of the morning. This particular card was simpler than past ones, but it made me smile. Plain brown paper, folded in half. Covered in marker scribbles…the first card G has helped to make. And J, funny man that he is, cut out pieces of that evil wallpaper and pasted them over the scribbles.
Maybe the Harvard people should have done their study on Mother’s Day because I felt pretty happy all day.