Not So Great Expectations

Since yesterday was my 27th Mother's Day celebration, I had a pretty good idea how it would go down. I felt confident that I was not going to be whisked off in a limo for a relaxing day at the spa or be handed tickets for a three day culinary cruise to Bermuda. Maybe stuff like that really happens to the rich and famous (or wives with incredibly guilt-ridden husbands) but I was pretty sure it wasn't going to happen to me. What I did expect was a couple of cards, maybe a flower or two and some heartfelt Facebook postings about "being the best mom ever".

I wasn't far off, except for the whole cooking my own breakfast thing. I didn't see that one coming.

With one of my kids (the boy who barely remembers Christmas) out of town, it fell to my pregnant daughter to take one for the team. She and her new hubby gave me a brightly-colored box filled with tiny slips of paper extolling my various virtues. While mine ("You bought me that cool bacon cooker") could hardly be compared to the list that Chelsea Clinton might have given Hillary ("Thanks for helping find Bin Laden"), it never hurts to hear your kids say nice things about you.

Once my son finally got home (after a nasty thunderstorm diverted his plane to Detroit), he promised me a lunch at the place of my choice, which I hastily collected this afternoon. With his imminent departure to the Pacific Time Zone looming, I'm not messing around. So I didn't get a mushy (or even funny) card from him (although I did get a sweet one from his girlfriend). I got something even
better - a sincere, "Love you" and pineapple/mango gelato. He's a man of few words but he knows about priorities.

Despite doing work than I wanted to yesterday (couldn't someone have handed me a glass of Sangria while I was making that bruschetta?), it turned out to be a very special day. And it didn't have anything to do with gifts, cards, or spa treatments. It had everything to do with getting the chance to be a part of my niece's very first Mother's Day. She, very much like her aunt, waited a long time to see her dream of becoming a mom come true and as I watched her dote on her adorable little guy, I felt transported back to those early days of motherhood; the days when you can't get enough sleep but don't really care; the days when you will do anything to provoke a laugh from a ten pound human being; the days when you thank God every fifteen seconds for bringing this tiny person into your life.

My daughter will be in those shoes next year. And I'll be promoted to "grandma" (or "Mimi" or "Oma" - I haven't decided yet).

With macaroni necklaces and handprint t-shirts in my future, who needs another pedicure?

Happy Feet

We were supposed to go out to dinner. My better half was out of town and my daughter and I had a date at a local seafood restaurant. I had the Groupon ready to go when I got the call from my firstborn telling me that her stomach was on the fritz and she didn't think it was up to a big dinner. Feeling a little rejected (not to mention bummed out about having to cook), I sucked it up and told her not to worry, we'd do it another day.

That's when she offered me an alternative. After a rough day at work, she was craving a little pampering and wondered if I might like to join her at the nail salon where we could indulge ourselves in a couple of pedicures.

My love/hate relationship with pedicures is well-known in my family. I love the idea of making my feet look pretty but I feel funny having strangers coming at my sensitive toes with sharp, metal objects while they jump to conclusions about my lack of personal hygiene. I don't know how anyone else feels but the first time they used one of those callous scrapers on me, I thought I would die of embarrassment. (Does anyone else have shavings that resemble something under a woodworker's bench? Of course they don't.)

So, I had two choices. I could make myself a sandwich and wait for Project Runway to entertain me or I could go spend a little time with my daughter even if it meant risking a barrage of whispered commentaries directed at the sorry state of my feet.

As you might guess, I opted for the latter. As soon as I got in that fabulous massage chair and dipped my toes in that toasty foot bath, most of my apprehensions disappeared. The girl working on me looked like she was still in middle school but she tackled my tootsies like a pro. Both my daughter and I decided to go for the spa pedicure (what's another $7?) which included a sugar scrub and a hot (and I do mean hot) parafin soak. As for the dreaded callous scraper - my teenage friend said I didn't even need it!

Forty-five minutes later, after solving the problems of the world while enjoying a relaxing back massage, we walked out with the prettiest, softest, happiest feet in town. We headed home, found some leftovers in the fridge, and tossed off a few catty comments on the latest Project Runway dramas. . .I mean, fashions.

Reconnecting with my kid, sharing a guilty pleasure, AND getting a bit of pampering? I'd give up a seafood dinner for that any day.