It has been long enough that I cannot remember how it was we celebrated Mother’s Day, San and I. If we did. And in our body we do, and Noah in particular takes much joy in it this year, but it is also a day of missing our daughter. And of obligations to body-mothers.
This morning it was a surprise to wake and go out to the kitchen and find it full of flowers. In my once-church-a-home it is possible to be, as the warrior queen calls it, over the top and this was: It was as though a garden had been brought inside, and all the flowers larger than life. Anala danced among the petals, which Asher tasted (only once, for they were bitter), and Avalon and Ahren provided a breakfast with some irony yet more cheer. They know that celebrating in this way is an odd dance: A series of traditions not mine which I yet observe, and not theirs which they yet proffer.
It was very nice. Such a word, nice. Once pejorative in my vocabulary. But this was pleasant.
In all my life what has surprised me the most has not been love, nor sunshine, nor the knife and blood, nor even San’s leaving, but it has been the joy in having children. Not only to have them but to see who they become and not to marvel in my own parenting, which is often very poor, but in them, themselves. To know them as people. So I delight in that, this Mother’s Day.
While I am reporting, I think Caprice did something similar, but with a display of thorns, and Lark and Whimsey of course found their cake.