mother’s day

In having a child sure I have been dealt the cross of decades of worry and care, but I’ve also gained a holiday. Fantasy mother’s day presents danced in my head like sugar plums. A new robe? A trip to the Caribbean?

In my "parents’ class" that week the teacher wanted us all to dip our kids’ feet in ink and press them to pre-cut purple hearts that read, in sloppy penmanship, "Happy Mother’s Day!" (Yes, purple hearts. We won’t go there.) Isaac was fussy that day and there was no way I was aggravating the problem by creating something I’d just have to pretend to like and then recycle. (Besides, being involved in making your own mother’s day card is like baking your own damn birthday cake.) "Are you ready?" my teacher asks me eagerly. "We’re gonna pass this time," I tell her. Can’t she hear my squalling baby? his cries going right to the core of my biological response systems, my eleven-week hormonal state?? Am I ready indeed! And she calls herself a parent education specialist. Yeah, so am I, lady, so am I.

The day itself was just another gassy day for my baby that happened to be decorated with yellow iris. But I could accept that. I did get to listen to This American Life on NPR after all. So one morning last week, I stumbled into my living room (not a bungalow in Saint Croix) in my ratty old bathrobe to find the iris only half-open but already dead and my card covered in cat vomit. Ladies and gentlemen, the ground hog saw his shadow, it’s gonna be a looong first year.