Mother’s Day Tea

Is there an apostrophe in Mother’s Day?  I never know.

Today was the annual cryfest Mother’s Day Tea at my daughter’s preschool.  I don’t know when I’ll learn to bring a Kleenex to these events.

I arrived at the school on time and looking like a drowned rat, thanks to the monsoon outside.  I stood in line in the hallway with the other mothers as we waited to be escorted one-by-one by our children into the classroom.  I had tears in my eyes before I even entered the room.  When the little girl in line before mine came out to usher her mother into the room, she looked up with such love and adoration that I had to blink fast to stop the tears from spilling over.

Soon it was my turn to try to fit my adult-sized rump into a miniature chair. In my place was a pretty potted plant, a tissue-paper flower corsage, and a handmade card from my little princess. She was eager to tell me how she made the ladybugs on the pot with her thumb prints.

After we were all seated and welcomed, our children brought us each a plate of cookies and a single chocolate covered strawberry. Fortunately, the teachers passed out the lemonade so we moms didn’t end up wearing it.

I had to fight my daughter for the strawberry. I told her that only a mother’s love would cause me to turn over that delectable treat to her grubby little fingers.

After snacks, we were treated to a short presentation and then the teacher read a paragraph from each child about their mommies, and we had to guess whose was whose. It was clearly a fill-in-the-blank form with their answers at the end of each sentence. Mine read as follows:

“I love my mom because she plays Uno Attack with me. She is prettiest when she wears dresses. My mom likes to make Cheerios. My mom always says good night. My mom is funny when she is never funny.”

I must say, this was quite the learning experience. First of all, if Uno Attack is so important to her, I probably should try to play with her more than once a week.

And I think she has seen me in a dress all of two times in her entire life. Evidently this has made quite an impact on her. I see a few new dresses in my future.

My culinary prowess is evidently lost on my child. I may just give up cooking and resort to Cheerios for dinner, if that is her meal of choice. Hey, more time for blogging, eh?

I was trying to figure out why, out of everything I say to her, “good night” is what she remembers most. Then I deduced that this is probably because I say “good night” with such glee, knowing that the house is finally ALL MINE for a couple of glorious hours.

And finally, and perhaps most sobering of everything I learned today, I am not funny. EVER. Perhaps I should just shut down this blog and take a job as a professional mourner or something. Maybe that would be better suited to my lack of humor.