Mother's Day Package

“Insurance?” the postal clerk asks, as I deftly plunk the large box onto the scale. She glances up at me, like, wow, this one’s stronger than she looks—until she shifts the sucker herself and realizes I am shipping a huge box of air. Well, not quite air.

Every once in a while, the perfect Mother’s Day present surfaces. OK, this could be confusing. Clarification: I’m the mother, giving the present. It just seems right: You see, how could I be a mother without a kid, and so why not say thanks? I love being a mother—and no, I’m not a “perfect” mother; frustration, anger, overreaction, and more have been part of my mothering vocabulary.

This year, it’s Humpty Dumpty potato chips. My daughter has been pining for them for years, probably all the years since she left home for college in another state, but I never quite heard the call until now.

“They used to be made in Maine (according to the guy at mainegoodies
.com, she’s right), but now they’re made in Canada. And you can’t get them in New York,” she states, clearly exasperated with this ridiculous failure on the part of the “big city” that sports just about everything one couldn’t have on her tiny dirt road of childhood.

My not being particularly finicky (some would call it not even discerning—almost anything can work for me), I say, “Well, honey, they do have chips in New York. Just buy some other kind.”

Silence sits on the telephone line for a few seconds.

“This is me, Mama. Me,” she says as if I must have forgotten who she was. Silly me. Of course. This is the discerning child, the one with clear tastes: this water, that vodka, this particular seasoning mixture for salmon, and, of course, white rice—not the brown of childhood that still smells odd to her.

And so I have bought six bags of Humpty Dumpty BBQ chips and packed them in leftover Styrofoam peanuts and bubble wrap so they would have less chance of arriving as one small handful of crumbs sitting in the bottom of each large bag.

When they arrive, she calls to say, “You’re the best!”

When I hear those words, I counter with, “You’re the best!”

I hope over the years my children have realized I mean it: now and forever.
Motherhood is a lifetime job, and a tough one. It’s also the most important job on the planet, if you ask me, and yet we don’t receive any—nope, nada, none—training for it. If you’re lucky, you had a great (or good or fair) role model in your formative years, but really that’s not the case for everyone.

I mean, I adored my mother and I know she adored me, but I have no recollection of her ever having said, “I love you” or “You’re the best,” and when I brought home all As on my report cards, it was expected. She might praise me to others. I don’t know. I wouldn’t have been present for those praisings.

She never told me I was pretty or smart or interesting or creative or could reach for the stars—and that I could define those stars in my own way.
It took me a while to figure out that she meant to; she just didn’t know how. So let me make this clear—my funny, smart, creative, gorgeous, generous, feisty children: You’re the best. Happy Mother’s Day.