Early Mother's Day

I’ve never considered myself a Donna Reed mother. I’m more of a cross between Auntie Mame and Mother Theresa. ( you’ll have to trust me on the Mother Theresa factor—another posting for sure. )

For one thing, I raised my sons on my own from the time they were 8 and 11 ( I was 35, just a kid ). So, I wasn’t exactly reading Julia Child and worried about gourmet meals. In fact, to hear my sons tell it, they were making their own lunches before they could reach the counter.

While that may be far fetched, it is true, though, that they each had many chores. At one point, I assigned each of them one dinner per week with the caveat that whatever they cooked, as long as it had reasonable nutritional value, we would eat without complaint—or fix a peanut butter sandwich. My memory is that those meals worked out pretty well. For me, it was one more thing I didn’t have to think about that day.

But now, when my sons come home, I can be a Donna Reed mother—or that is my intention. They did come home last weekend. It is the first time all of us have been together there for exactly one year.

Having adult children and their offspring come home is one of my great joys. But it’s not without angst. I’ve been sorting out the details of the visit for a month—not because anyone expected it, but because I wanted it to be seamless, fun, a break for them from their hectic lives, a memory for times to come.

For Ethan, my grandson, I knew it would be a little paradise with fish and frogs in the stream, ducks in the lake, green grass to play whiffle ball, a scooter to ride in the driveway, a playground and sandpile. None of those happen in his own backyard ( or most children’s ) in New York---there isn’t a backyard.

Since he had not been to my house in Pennsylvania for one year, the equipment needed updating.

First, I got Ethan a mattress and bought a car seat for my car so he and I could have an adventure while the others were running the Broad Street 10 mile race on Sunday. When I left New York, I put Ethan’s potty chair in a plastic bag in my suitcase so he would have the one he recognized ( he is very particular about such things ). Then, I made up his new bed with flannel sheets in pastel pinks and blues and the coverlet that was on my son Ben’s bed when he was a toddler.

For the adults, I made other preparations. I got a mattress pad for Ben’s bed/sleeper sofa to give it more cushion. Ben usually sleeps in my office cum bedroom, so I rifled through months of paperwork and threw piles of old files away, clearing space for their belongings, and freshening up the look of the room. I made reservations for dinner for all of us on Saturday so that everyone could eat whatever they wanted.


Friday evening, on my way back from a board meeting in Washington, D.C., I made a grocery run, trying to remember everyone’s favorites: meatless lasagna for my daughter-in-law, Jenn, a vegetarian; green salsa ( doesn't like red ) and vanilla ice cream for my son Chris; animal crackers and cheddar goldfish for Ethan; a dozen eggs with veggies for breakfast Sunday after the run for Ben—who last time he was in my kitchen after a long run, and looking at the bagels I had out said: “ Do you have some protein, Mom, like eggs?” And, of course,I made sure I had the right kind of beer( which changes as they age ). Right now, it is Harp's Ale.

I had some family business to accomplish, too. I had some papers I needed both sons to sign. So I arranged for my friend, a notary, to drop by for cocktails before dinner on Saturday to make it easier for our schedule.

Oh-- and Ben announced that his girlfriend, Abigail's, parents were going to drive the two of them up from their home in Wilmington on Saturday afternoon. i wanted Abbi to feel comfortable since this was her first visit to the house. And,I wanted, of course, to invite her folks in for cocktails—which I planned to do upon their arrival.

By 10 p.m. on Friday night, I was ready. The fruit was in the bowl, three kinds of milk ( and half and half for Ben’s coffee ) in the fridg, muffin mix was ready for the next morning, fresh coffee beans poised next to the Melitta coffeemaker. The house was chock full of choices.

Chris, Jenn and Ethan arrived late Friday night. Ethan’s mattress was on the floor next to his parents’ bed. He went to bed in it without a whimper. But in the night, he flopped out of it three or four times. Finally, they put him in their bed.

At noon on Saturday, Chris stood at the refrigerator in the same pose I remember from 20 years before, scratching his head, scanning the shelves.
“What do you want, honey”, I asked, hoping I had it.
“I don’t know, Mom, got any turkey?”
“No, Boca Burgers, though. Or I could make a salad.”
Who knew turkey would be the thing?

On Saturday afternoon, everything happened too fast. Ethan didn’t nap. His dad, Chris and I taught him how to bat with a whiffle ball. He loved to hold the thick part of the bat instead of the neck, and when he pitched, he threw the ball straight up to the sun.

All of a sudden it was almost 4:30, and I hadn’t changed for dinner. I jumped in the shower, jumped out of the shower, dressed, walked downstairs. There was Ben with Abbi, his girlfriend—no parents. They had left.

I put out the green salsa, French brie, crackers and chips, figuring they would devour them. No one ate a thing.

Dinner out was my best idea, it turned out. As I scanned our table with everyone shirted, showered, and shoed, the table was noisy with stories and laughter--including a toast to our gathering.

Sunday morning, the four runners came downstairs with sleepy eyes, and piled into the station wagon at 6:40a.m. I went back to bed, hoping Ethan would sleep. He did—until 8.

After he got dressed, I fixed him some breakfast. We sat at the bay window and watched the birds at the feeder. “Oh, Grammie, ohhh, loook”, he’s squeal when a cardinal would perch on the wood tray.

Deer arrived in the stream as if on cue. “Look, Grammie, look. There’s fhreeeee, there’s fhreeee deer.” Ethan squirmed in his chair with excitement, his blue eyes dancing.

I strapped him into his seat and off we went to Toys R Us. He was silent the whole trip except to sing a little with me. He just ate his cheddar goldfish and drank from his water sippy cup and watched the world go by. That ride took me right back in Iowa City, Iowa, in 1970 when his father was sitting in the car seat on the frequent trips he and I would take to my sister’s house, 30 miles away. Chris would sit there and watch, perched like a little prince, checking out his kingdom. I guess that’s what a generational legacy is all about.

The runners returned, weary but happy. Did they want eggs? No.Thanks. Not right now.

What did they want? Turkey hero sandwiches from Neopolitan Deli down the road.

After lunch, they all sat around. Ethan and his daddy played more whiffle ball. And I watched Chris carefully show Ethan poison ivy and explain its effect, and watched him help Ethan balance on a felled tree over the stream.

There were no recipes as a result of the weekend to remember it by. So, I guess not much as changed. I’m still not Donna Reed, probably never really aspired to be ( hardly own an apron ). I had this fantasy that if my life had been different when they were growing up, if I had been able to be home more, they might have memories about wonderful meals, recipes passed on to their wives and children.

But,I don't think they came for the food.


M.C.