About five years ago, my military husband returned home after a long sail just before Mother’s Day, and he wanted to do something special.
“They have a beautiful Mother’s Day brunch at the base,” Clayton said. “I’ll get tickets.”
I was excited about brunch. When I was a young mother in Yellowknife, some mom friends in my church held one on Mother’s Day every year. We’d go to the Explorer Hotel and eat, talk and drink bellinis. There was only one rule: moms only. No kids, no husbands (babes in arms welcome.)
“It won’t be the same as the moms-only brunch, but it will still be nice to go out for a lovely meal with the family,” I thought.
On Mother’s Day morning, we arrived at brunch, scrubbed and pressed. I looked around and realized with dismay that the tables were set for formal service, with two delicate wine glasses at every seat. As I pushed glasses to the middle of the table and swiped knives out of chubby hands, I looked at the brunch tables with interest, and then utter horror.
There was a chocolate fountain, at child-accessible height, and my boys were wearing white shirts and khaki dress pants.
A few children had already discovered the sweet, chocolaty wonder, and had moved beyond dipping fruit and marshmallows and were plunging fingers into its milky brown depths. One little boy was licking the stream. His mother, in a beautiful blue dress, was trying to drag him away without getting covered with chocolate.
My boys were gazing at this scene of chaos with a feral light shining in their eyes. I knew that look: it meant I wasn’t going to get to sit down or eat for more than a few minutes, because Clayton and I were going to be chasing children instead.
“No more brunches,” I declared as we buckled the kids in their car seats an hour later, all of us sporting blobs of chocolate. “Ever.”
Since then, I get a lovely breakfast in bed prepared by Clayton and the kids each Mother’s Day. However, last year, Clayton was sailing all through May.
On Mother’s Day morning, I heard the faint sounds of an alarm clock from the boys’ room at about six, then shuffling feet and whispers. I soon heard sounds in the kitchen, too: the toaster popping and the kettle boiling.
Twenty minutes later, all four children arrived at the bedroom door. Alex was carrying a breakfast tray, Isaac a cup of tea, and Naomi a homemade card. Eddie was clutching a half-eaten banana.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!” Alex announced. “Dad isn’t here to make you breakfast in bed, so we did it all by ourselves!”
I ate my cold toast, lukewarm tea and slightly mushy banana with an audience of proud children.
It was better than any brunch could ever be.
