Mother’s Day didn’t start off so well this year.
I mean, I was given many hugs and pre-toothbrushed kisses (cough, cough) and a couple of great homemade cards from my resident artists. That part was nice, if smelly in a way only a Mom could tolerate love without pointed comment.
But my favorite mug, which not-coincidentally holds held up to three and a half ‘regular’* cups of my preferred liquid, suddenly went incontinent and leaked hot French Vanilla roast all over everything seconds after I filled it—and when I poured it into an emergency receptacle, the handle disintegrated into shards and dust.
Turns out, even microwave- and dishwasher-safe pottery biodegrades after twenty years of constant use. Who knew?
Luckily, it’s our family tradition to go to the Art Fair a few towns over, so I had hopes of replacing it with something that wouldn’t be as geeky-cool as a lion-headed Ohio Renaissance Fair souvenir mug, but which would at last have decent control of its contents for a couple decades.
When we arrived, Sunny and I went off together, while Watson wrangled Jane.
Normally, the Sunster goes for dresses, toys, and the color pink, but this time, she made a beeline for the nearest pottery stall. She picked up a glazed mug from the lowest shelf and said, “This one looks like the one you broke this morning, Mommy!” she hollered, to the amusement of everyone within twenty feet.
It did, sort of, but . . . “I didn’t break it honey, it fell apart by itself.”
“I’m getting it for you, anyway. It’s pretty.” And she marched up to pay the man with the money my husband, who had taken my MIL to a baseball game instead—and who might have felt a little guilty for making me spend Mother’s Day in the company of my children**—had slipped her to buy me a nice gift.
The problem: she had a twenty and the mug was twenty-three.
The solution: I grabbed another mug from a higher shelf. “Yours can be my coffee mug, then, and I’ll buy this one to be my tea mug. Because I’m tired of fishing tea bags out of my coffee every morning.”***
She giggled. “Good idea, Mommy!”
The nice pottery man, who had been visibly torn between maintaining good business practice and disappointing an adorable moppet who only wanted to buy a special gift for her clumsy mother, relaxed and gladly swapped her payment for my Discover Card.
Crisis averted and I had some cash for ice cream later—bonus!
So now I have two more Caffeination/Hydration Support Staff by my side:
Jane also gave me a lovely pendant made from a slice of geode, which I can’t take a decent photo of to save my life, but it’s gorgeous.^
And once my husband arrived home, I took my traditional Mother’s Day nap and slept through the kids’ traditional Overtired, Overstimulated Pre-Dinner Squabblefest, until the doors started slamming.
Ahhhh. Good times.
How was your Mother’s Day?
______________________________
*By which I mean actual measuring cups, not anything would consider a proper-sized serving.
**I’m joking. That’s a Father’s Day thing.
***Sadly, this is true. I’m too tired at night to dump the bag out and I’m too out of it in the morning, pre-coffee, to remember I haven’t done it. This doesn’t matter so much when I had green tea, chamomile, or even Lady Grey the night before—but Peach Hazelnut Vanilla isn’t a taste sensation, believe me.
^Aside from the thumbprint smear I’ve put on it—seven hours on my person and it’s become my new worry stone. ‘Course, almost everything does.
Earful of Cider 