Once upon a long time ago, I was maybe 5 years old, and I talked my dad into buying my mom a waffle iron for Mother’s Day. I remember this because, one, I love waffles, and two, because my mother brings it up every chance she gets. That year she was, no doubt, hoping her only daughter would come through with suggestions of glittery objects and gifts meant solely for her. And in my defense, it was shiny and meant just for her. To make me waffles!

Like all parasites kids, I loved my mom so much that I saw myself as an extension of her, and if it made me happy, certainly it would make her happy too. I mean…H-E-L-L-O…Waffles!? She loved it because it came from me and because I was so proud I had picked out something she really “needed.”  But it wasn’t what she “wanted.”

Which is why she cackled hysterically the year my boys presented me with a homemade ice cream maker.


 

All I want for Mother’s Day is an appliance with which to further cater domestically to my offspring.


 

Said no mom, ever.  (And if you really did hope for a Roomba or a Panini press, I’m so glad you’ve come, acknowledging the problem is the first step. We’re here for you).

First let me say that my father should have never gone along with the notion that a waffle iron made for a good personal gift for the in-house chef.  But he knew he had a patsy to take the rap (i.e. me), and he hates to shop like I hate the UPS man when he rings the doorbell during my well planned history lesson.  But that’s a different story you can read right here.   And my husband probably let my kids pick the ice cream maker because he found a coupon for Bed Bath and Beyond in my purse, was overwhelmed with the floor to fifty foot ceiling shelves of sheets, candles, and cork boards decorated with fat little Italian men, and he just needed to get home to poop.  They literally ran in the door when they got home, dropped my new chore (not wrapped) in my lap, and ran to the toilet and then outside to play basketball.  What the…?!  Literally I began to smell waffles.

Living to meet the educational, emotional, and physical needs of an entire household is a prescription to fantasize about that one day of the year that everyone realizes how good they have it around here, presents me with all the laundry washed, folded and put away, then takes me to high tea with little finger sandwiches, leaves me be for a bit at the bookstore, and ends with a full body massage, a good movie and cookie dough.  If I’m being honest.

BTW, No appliances are necessary to the creation of this gift.

But what mom doesn’t have a plastic bin (or seven) filled with the most beautiful plaster handprints, pot holders with handprints, laminated placemat with handprints, framed poem and handprints, and an assortment of pasta shaped necklaces? Okay, so maybe not you homeschool moms who knew what you wanted to be when you grew up before you put your kids in public school accidentally on purpose.

Which leads me to my next question.  Do homeschool moms orchestrate the crafting of their own Mother’s Day gifts?  In all seriousness, I need to know.  I don’t want to be leaving out a big part of their education.  I know that Mother’s Day crafting was a big part of my schooling at least until 4th grade.  My mom still hangs things I crafted in elementary on the Christmas tree made from construction paper that now looks like it originated from the dead sea scrolls.  But seeing the other twenty-one specially fresh painted “World’s Greatest Mom” bookmarks drying on the art table kind of dulls the message.  Am I right?

Truthfully, it’s really sweet and entertaining to see what your kid will choose to give you when left to their own devices.  Like a guitar shaped spatula!  “Cause, you know mom, you love when I play the guitar, and you make awesome pancakes and pan fried cheeseburgers. So I thought you needed one.”  Yes. Yes, I did.  Seriously, I grin and fight the urge to air guitar across the kitchen when I reach for that perfectly personal gift to flip a quesadilla.  And I also have a necklace of iridescent catfish and fish bones, from three boys left to their imagination in the jewelry department.  Yup, they nailed it.

Forget the popsicle stick and laminated-handprint-flowerpot fifty-two mothers will be handed on Friday in the pick-up line. Over jellied toast, room temperature coffee, and a handwritten misspelled card is as wonderful as it gets, ladies.   And it’ll be everything I never knew I always wanted for Mother’s Day.

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