Some of you may be living in fear – I mean, joyful anticipation – of breakfast in bed on Mother’s Day. I have felt your pain.
Many years ago, when our oldest sons were about seven and five years old, I awoke on that special day to my dear husband whispering, “Don’t get out of bed. The boys want to surprise you.” Surprise? Oh, honey.
I forced myself to stay upstairs in bed while listening to all the banging and sizzling and frantic instruction that accompanies the preparation of a feast by three novice chefs – I’m talking two little boys and their dad whose specialty is cereal. After what seemed like forever, they processed up the stairs, proudly bearing the fruits of their labor.
The main course was something akin to a breakfast taco, meaning a quivery fried egg on a stale tortilla. How did I know the tortilla was stale before I had even touched it? Well, to be frank, I didn’t even know there was a tortilla left in the kitchen. It was probably shoved in the back of the fridge in the area reserved for science projects. I had either kept it because I had forgotten it was there or because I thought it might be useful to hide a pill for one of the dogs. Suffice it to say that there could be no question about it being suitable for human consumption.
And the egg? Well, I’m just not a big fan of eggs period. I love them in baked goods, quiche, homemade ice cream, or migas smothered with salsa. But on its own, I would never, ever, ever choose to eat an egg – especially one that wasn’t cooked to the consistency of craft foam.
Let me qualify that last statement. I would never choose to eat a quivery, slightly runny egg but for the two little boys and beaming husband who had gleefully presented it to me like the Crown Jewels and waited anxiously to witness my delight in their culinary efforts. What could I do? I ate it. Stale tortilla, runny egg, the whole nine yards – down the hatch.
And you know what? All these years later – I’m not going to say how many – that is probably my most memorable Mother’s Day Moment – other than my first one which we spent in a NICU (but that’s a whole other story).
When I think of that truly awful breakfast, I can still picture my little boys – now grown men – presenting me with this selfless gift. The end result wasn’t an accurate reflection of their efforts. It was their masterpiece. They had all entered foreign territory with very few recognizable landmarks and emerged victorious. This was the Lewis and Clark expedition of Mom’s Kitchen.
If I could relive that moment, would I eat it again? In a heartbeat.
All that said, I have a suggestion. Let your kids serve you breakfast in bed. Or let them serve you breakfast at the dining table. It doesn’t really matter where. What counts is that your children get to experience the joy of serving others.
And while I’m making a suggestion, here’s another. Seize the opportunity to create memories with your kiddos by helping them prepare breakfast ahead of time. Let them do the serving on that special morning, but guide them through the steps required to get a meal ready.
Help them decide what to cook. Walk them through assembling the ingredients. Assist them or oversee the actual cooking – you know how much supervision your own children need in the kitchen. It is perfectly OK to make something ahead of time that can be served on Mother’s Day, giving you the added bonus of this shared experience.
Above all, decide to enjoy yourself. Make a commitment to you and your kids that you’ll savor every moment from picking out tiny bits of eggshell to swallowing that last bite. Remember, there are so many who would love to trade places with you, who wish they could go back in time, or who are still anxiously awaiting their turn to be called “Mama”.
Happy Mother’s Day!