Sunday, May 13, 2007

Happy Mother’s Day!

I had a great Mom’s Day. It started a little early for my taste. My son is on a travel baseball team*, and they had a tournament this weekend. We rolled out of bed at 5:30 this morning so we could be at the ballfield by 7:00. But breakfast was waiting for us when got up because last night I took my daughter to a birthday party, and while I was gone, my son baked a pan of sweet rolls he learned to make in FACS (family and consumer science—what we used to call home ec) and wrapped them up for Mother’s Day breakfast this morning. The kid has his moments!

And tonight my husband fixed Mother’s Day dinner—steaks grilled outside, with potatoes and corn on the cob. The big guy has his moments, too.

In between baseball and eating, my daughter and I managed to slip off to the nursery and buy tomato plants, begonias for the hanging baskets on my front porch, potting soil, and the best plant-related item I’ve ever purchased: a hanging basket so full of tomato plants—with at least a hundred little green tomatoes already on the vine—that I had to have help lifting it into my car. Now I don’t have to wait till July for garden-fresh tomatoes. I’ll have them in a week or so. And they’ll be hanging outside my door, ready to be picked.

Is there anything better on this earth than a just-picked tomato, still warm from the sun?

* About my son, I know I’m his mother, so my opinion is slightly biased, but man can that kid pitch a baseball. And here’s the great part: It wasn’t that long ago, maybe two years, that he would do anything to get out of pitching. (My son: “Coach, my arm’s hurting. I don’t know how much longer I can go.” Coach: “But son, you haven’t faced a batter yet.”) It wasn’t because he couldn’t throw, but because he was afraid he wouldn’t throw well, and everyone would see, and then he’d look stupid. There’s no place to hide on a pitcher’s mound. But he liked to pitch (when no one was looking), and he’s left-handed (which he knew would be valuable to his team, especially as they got older), so he took lessons and made himself do it anyway, and now he can’t wait to get on the mound. He wants to start every game.

I remind him of this whenever he thinks something’s too hard. I tell him, “See? When you push yourself through adversity, you get to the other side better and stronger.” He, of course, rolls his eyes and says, “Does everything have to be a lesson?” Sorry, son, but yes, when you’re a mom, everything does have to be a lesson.

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