How was your weekend?  Mine was lovely, in spite of the title of this post.

Friday morning was the Mother’s Day Tea at my daughter’s preschool, and Friday night was our neighborhood Bunco gathering.  Although for the third time in a row we didn’t end up playing.  There was way too much chatting and eating and chatting and drinking and chatting going on.

On Saturday, I braved the chill to attend my son’s baseball game.  We got there and settled ourselves on the bleachers, and I waited impatiently until I saw a familiar little figure warming up behind home plate.

My son has a little routine he performs before each pitch.  He places his feet in the dirt, whacks the ground a few times with his bat, takes a couple of practice swings, wiggles his bony little hips, and then looks to the coach to signal he is ready.

After the little dance, the first ball shot out of the machine.  He swung and missed.  Strike!  He did his little dance again and looked up at the coach.  The next ball shot out of the machine, and he hit it squarely with his bat.  As the ball whizzed into the outfield, he ran as fast as his short, wiry legs could carry him, easily making it to first base and advancing the other two players on the field to make the bases loaded.

The parents in the stands clapped, and there was an elderly couple behind me — someone’s grandparents, I assume.  I heard the woman say to her husband, “That was a good hit!” He agreed.

I had to refrain from turning around and saying, “Yeah, he’s mine.”

Then from across the field I saw my son look up at the bleachers and lift his hand in a little wave, as if to say, “Did you see that, Mom?”

Immediately I felt the hot sting of tears behind my eyelids.  WHY do I tear up at everything?  I don’t know.  All I know is, my 8-year-old is such a big guy these days, it’s nice to know that he still needs the approval of his mama.

Sunday morning my son bounded out of bed, came downstairs, exclaimed “Happy Mother’s Day!” and put a gift bag in my lap.  Inside was a little “corsage” he had made at school with a cinnamon stick and a cardboard flower.  I promised to wear it on my jacket.  My girls took their turns wishing me “Happy Mother’s Day!”  Even the 2-year-old learned a new phrase this weekend.

We grabbed a few pictures before leaving for church.

At church, the sermon was about mothers.  I can’t count the number of times I teared up during that sermon.  The worst part was when the pastor told of Mary at the foot of the
cross, how even after his disciples (all but John) had all run away in fear, she was a mother to the
bitter end.

When I was 17, I had the opportunity to play the role of Mary in my church’s Christmas pageant that depicted the life of Christ.  Through that role, I connected with Mary in a very personal way, and I’ve never forgotten it.  I remember acting out that scene at the cross, when Jesus looked down and said, “Mother, behold your son.  Son, behold your mother”, thereby turning over the care of Mary to his beloved disciple John.

When our pastor told that story yesterday, I had all I could to do keep the tears from flowing freely.  See, even when he was dying on the cross, Jesus revered and cared for his mother.  And his mother never stopped being his mother, and she never left him, even when most everyone else had deserted him.  The bond of motherhood is truly unlike any other.  And I love that even in his perfect holiness, Jesus needed his mother.

After church my in-laws came over for lunch.  The burgers and pie were divine.  On their way out to their car to go home, my mother-in-law stopped to say good-bye to my 5-year-old daughter, who was drawing with chalk on the driveway.  After a short conversation, my mother-in-law said good-bye and started walking to her car.  My daughter stopped her drawing, looked up and said, “Good-bye, Nana.  I love you.”

You know what’s coming right?  You betcha.  The tears.

My mother-in-law stopped in her tracks.   She turned around and said, “I love you too.”  Then she looked at me and said, “Now I’m going to cry.”  She was in good company.

And then.  THEN.  I had to go and watch the Survivor season finale last night.  When Ozzy got up in tribal council and declared his love for Amanda, I think I actually swooned.  (Can one swoon in the 21st century?)  And of course there were more tears.

Hormones, anyone?  I have plenty to go around.