“I won’t grow up… I don’t want to wear a tie… Or a serious expression… In the middle of July…” The familiar melody from the Peter Pan song drifts down the hallway, stopping me in my tracks. With a smile, I sneak a peek into my son’s room, where he’s happily immersed in a world of Legos.
“What are you singing, buddy?” I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.
He gasps, eyes wide. “MOM! You’re not supposed to hear it! It’s a surprise!”
Feigning innocence, I respond, “What? I didn’t hear anything. Did you?”
His grin expands, lighting up his 7-year-old face, “I know you’re just teasing, Mom.”
Every Mother’s Day brings a unique assortment of gifts: scrambled eggs topped with American cheese, a hanging plant, new running shoes, a pair of gardening gloves—typically in pink—and a scenic trail hike along the Wissahickon. And of course, there are the hand-drawn cards.
One card, crafted by my oldest son with a hint of reluctance, features a small pencil sketch and a clever joke. When he hands it to me, he leans in for a hug—an uncommon treat for this reserved tween.
Then there’s the card from my 10-year-old, adorned with colorful marker illustrations, usually depicting me with a huge smile, freckles galore, and a cape. He follows it up with a warm hug, his hands still stained with marker ink, a testament to his creative efforts.
The youngest two, ages 7 and 4, eagerly thrust two more cards into my hands. They jump into my lap, their heads resting on my shoulders. Though they no longer smell like babies, they will always be my little ones. As I finally glance at their creations, tears fill my eyes at the sight of printer paper declaring, “I LOVE YOU, MOM.”
It’s a simple message, yet it carries the weight of everything—crafted by hands still learning the shapes of letters, with grips that are a little too tight.
The clock nears 8 AM on a Thursday morning, and I find myself seated among other kindergarten parents in the school chapel, waiting for our boys to enter. I suspect I will soon hear the song I caught my son singing last week—the one about resisting the pull of adulthood. The lump in my throat grows as the anticipation builds.
As the boys file in, donning a variety of hats—chef hats, fireman hats, hard hats, and fezzes—they wave enthusiastically to us before taking the stage. My son doesn’t see me at first, but his face lights up when he finally spots me. I wave and blow him a kiss; he tips his hard hat in response, and just like that, the first tear escapes.
“I won’t grow up… I don’t want to go to school. Just to learn to be a parrot… And recite a silly rule.”
I wipe away the tears that fall, first with my fingertips and then with the heels of my hands.
“If growing up means… It would be beneath my dignity to climb a tree… I’ll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up… Not me! Not I… Not me!”
I cry for my son, who has made such strides in just a year, and for the enthusiasm he pours into his performance. I know that such excitement often wanes as they grow older, just as I’ve seen with his brothers.
“I won’t grow up… I don’t want to wear a tie. And a serious expression… In the middle of July.”
I shed tears not only for my son but also for the parents who have faced unimaginable losses.
This year, on Mother’s Day, I will relish every bite of my breakfast, inhale the fragrance of my flowers, and appreciate my new running shoes. I’ll slip my hands into my gardening gloves and savor every moment of our family hike—complaints and all. Each card made by my children will be cherished, a reminder of the love that fills our home. In honor of those mothers whose children will never grow up, and those who cannot stand alongside them, I will cherish every second of this special day.
Love, peace, and healing to all this Mother’s Day.
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Summary
This heartfelt reflection on Mother’s Day captures the joys and sorrows of motherhood, highlighting the simple yet profound gifts that our children offer. It’s a reminder to savor every moment and cherish our loved ones while also acknowledging the profound loss that some mothers face.
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