Aselin

In general I’m not a fan of Mother’s Day. It has always seemed to me to be a contrived holiday that guilts people into unnatural behaviors that they would never come up with on their own.

Surprisingly, this Mother’s Day was spectacular! I awoke to a gaggle of snuggling kids, who not only had showered in the last 24 hours, but also brushed their teeth! I think at that point my joy was full. But there was more in store.

I was then treated to breakfast. Traditionally the “Mother’s Day” breakfast is a conglomeration of random samplings, mostly inedible and cold. Decorated with greenery pulled out of a wilting bouquet purchased somewhere around midnight Saturday night. After being presented with the unappetizing platter, everyone would stand around not only watching but goading me to eat.

“Mom, eat the egg. I made it for you all by myself.”
“Which thing is the egg?”
“The gray thing.”
“Mmmmmm.” As I try to control my gag reflex.

These moments don’t really feel like a celebration of “Mother” rather some sort of Candid Camera/Punked skit. Yet, they play out over and over all across the nation.

So imagine my surprise AND delight when this year I’m presented with not only recognizable food, but delicious food. Eggs Benedict and fruit. Home run for the celebrants.

Then, EVERYONE gets ready for church. By themselves. On time. No screaming, crying, fashion crises, lost shoes, face paint, ripped jeans, mismatched colors. They looked like a snapshot out of a Sears catalog. Including hubby.

We head for church and I’m thinking “This is the best Mother’s Day ever!” While I’m not a fan of the annual “sainted mother” soliloquy that’s usually delivered, I genuinely feel celebrated, appreciated and full.

Walking in to church on Mother’s day patrons were greeting other patrons and exchanging pleasantries of the day. One of the Bishopric walks in with us and makes a comment about the program and my children being mentioned in the program. I, of course am still basking in my Benedict glow and think this is a reference to Unnamed child number three’s birthday this week.

How wrong I was.

Walking into the normally reverent chapel, I’m met with an overzealous welcome as people nod, smile, rise from their seats to shake my hand. Now, in my own mind I am a celebrity, but this usually does not pan out in real life.

We all sit in a comfy pew and I reach for a program to see what the special stylings for the day are. Unnamed child number one snatches the program from my hands before I can read it. I’m horrified. I thought I had broken the grabbing habit out of my children’s repertoire back in the toddler years. Clearly I’m a failure as a mother. Hubby starts to snicker, which only makes me madder. I harshly whisper at her for the program back and the people sitting behind us burst out in irreverent laughter. How rude! Like they have perfect, non-grabbing children. As I turn to see who it is I mentally admit, OK, they do have perfect, non-grabbing children, but still.

Unnamed child number two says in a slightly snickery voice, “Mom, do you want my program?”

I’m torn between my desire to restore order and my desire to regain my stolen program and swat unnamed child number one over the head with it. I notice other people are laughing at us. I look to my left and a family smiles and waves. Look to my right and a woman winks. What the heck? Like this kind of discipline hasn’t played out EVERY Sunday for as long as children have been allowed at church.

I take the program offered by unnamed child number two. It has a lovely pink insert inside. I pull it out and realize it’s a collection of quotes from the younger children in the congregation about their own mothers. Awwww.

I begin to read.

“She tucks me in at night,” “She is nice,” “She makes me cookies,” Awwww.

Then, I choke on my own spit as I read Unnamed child number two’s quote:

“She’s one HOT Mama and she’s nice.”

The wife of the family behind us puts her hand on my shoulder and can’t control her own giggling. My face turns a florescent hot red and I’m a little dizzy. But, after I quit coughing and realize why everyone was so attentive on my arrival, I attempt to laugh it off and move on with the service.

The service was lovely. I had calmed down and returned to normal temperatures. Unnamed child number two is completely proud of himself. So all is well.

Then, before we’re dismissed from the chapel, the Bishop stands up to share a few words. Holding up the insert he decides he wants to give a re-cap - in case anyone missed it. I’m not as dumb as I look. I know where this is going. Suddenly my bag on the floor needs immediate attention as I hear over the speaker system, “She tucks me in at night, she is nice, and then with a snigger not befitting of a man of the cloth he says “And of course, Unnamed child number two “She’s one HOT Mama!”

Is this church or a roast?

I don’t know why I thought it was over. Not only did I spend the rest of the Sunday being referred to as HOT Mama, but this entire week I’ve fielded phone calls for HOT Mama.

Most of me cringes in humiliation. Part of me wants to embrace it, because I am clearly a success as a mother as their indoctrination has been a success. They can cook AND punk me all on the same day.