I had a lovely Mother’s Day sleepover at my mom’s place on Saturday night—three blocks from our house, but it felt so very vay-cay-shun-ee. We first strolled into town for a mojito (me), a rum and diet coke (her), fish tacos (me) and nachos (her), then headed back to Mom’s, all thoughts of renting a movie abandoned by 9 pm. All the Lloyd Dobler conversation has me feeling aged, plus I’ve got the cold that won’t quit. So we spent a quiet night together blogging (her) and reading (me, Spook by Mary Roach, who I wish were my older sister, except with my luck these days she’s probably younger than I am).
It was a peaceful night, no odd yelps of “NO HANNAH THAT IS MY PURPLE FAIRY” or “STOP LICKING MY SPECIAL BLANKET” from children talking from deep within their peculiar kid-sleep. In the morning, Mom and I popped by the supermarket for some syrup and headed back to my house, where we were met by the smell of apple pancakes and the sight of two small midriff-baring massage therapists in sparkly skirts and Disney jewelry.
“Welcome to the Mother’s Day Massage Parlor!” said Miss Sophia, resplendent in a gold sequined skirt, a la Tonya Harding. “Come right this way.” They led us to the living room, where Soph and H-Belle took turns smacking and kneading Mom and me into melty Mother’s Day submission. Hattie’s “Band-Aid Finger Massage” was particularly memorable. They then proceeded to give us the Mummy’s Day Wrap (toilet paper, toilet paper, and more toilet paper), a very rare spa treatment. The whole time, the dogs were doing their WWF thing, flinging each other and streams of their saliva into our legs and the furniture.
It was surprisingly relaxing. The combination of those sweet little masseuse hands and those happy canines, and the promise of imminent apple pancakes, well…not a bad way to start the day. Not bad at all.
I was so mellow the rest of the day, that any time anyone put me in a car, I immediately fell asleep. David should really drug my pancakes more often! I would be a much better mother! Thanks, honey!
Then Mom and I escaped to Vermont for the afternoon and early evening. She and I went window-shopping for a new sofa (for us) and a chair (for her). We wound up buying a bunch of Vermont sweets, then found a tiny, nearly hidden, excellent restaurant where the chef was the only one working—taking orders and cooking and serving for the few folks who found their way there. We had a seat next to the fireplace, and a view of the Green Mountains at sunset.
Um, and by the time I got home? Um, the masseuses were already asleep? Thanks to their papa? And, um, I was kind of okay with that? I figure I have the rest of my life to be their mother, and you know, hug them and stuff and make up for the 40,000 ways I ruined them before they were six months old.
I am feeling narcoleptic again so I am going to pretend that my bed is a car and roll up the windows on this rather pleasant day.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. And Happy Mother’s Day, fellow warriors of the heart.
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