Happy (end of) Mother's Day . . .

. . . to all of you moms who made it through another day. For some reason unknown to me the universe has, a couple of times, been unnecessarily cruel to me on Mother's Days past, hence my routine: I sleep late, leave the bed cautiously and attempt to fly under the radar for the rest of the day. When the phone calls come, I answer with fear and trepidation. Why, you ask?

A certain child of mine, let's call it Alniece, had a habit of getting itself injured on Mother's Day. You get up, you put on that goofy dress and the kids pin their corsage on you. You go to church where you are handed a flower because, yes, you are a mother and THIS IS YOUR DAY. Any idea how bad it feels to be wearing the dress and the corsage while sitting in the front seat of an ambulance screaming its way to the local hospital?

Now that the kids are grown and living hundreds of miles away I regard my cell phone with mixed feelings on Mother's Day. It rings and I take a very deep breath before answering. What name does it say on the phone display? Okay, that probably means it's the other one who is hurt. What is it this time? Another near concussion from falling off the bike? Another chipped tooth? Or is the lower half of the leg pointing in a direction that it was never meant to take?

Come to think of it, this family has a bit of a history of holiday mishaps. I'm happy to report, though, that despite his work with the electric miter saw today, Jim's fingers are still mostly in their original condition. I'm hopeful at this late hour since I haven't heard from my offspring a second time today that all is well with them also. I'll retire for the evening with visions of Little Tommy tucked in his bed suffering no ill effects from his work with a power tool. And, finally, I believe, I believe, I believe that Little Alniece finished mowing the lawn with all body parts still intact.

My deepest and most heartfelt thanks to the universe for these two, the greatest gifts of my life.