This year I got a certificate from youngest daughter, printed from the internet at her friend’s house that reads: You have been awarded The Best Mother Ever Award Because you are Funny, Caring, Willing to drive me places, Kind, Generous, Feed me (even if the food is not to my liking), You love me (hopefully). Then she signed it and forged the signatures of her brother and sister, knowing full well they wouldn’t get around to a card. I respect her follow through, even if the certificate was her friend’s idea. She also made her brother an Infrica Award for Returning from India and Africa Without Dieing. Her language reminds me of Winnie the Pooh. In fact she could be an amalgam of all the characters, which is possibly why we find her so charming much of the time. Middle daughter, practical as ever, gave me a hunk of dark chocolate and a new pair of riding gloves.
My son was to return from his nine month long trip on Mother’s Day, but only because his Nepali visa ran out, not out of any filial devotion. He barely kept track of the days of the week, let alone any that he would consider a Hallmark Holiday. I however, decided to accept it as a Mother’s Day gift. Timing is everything after all. The night before he was due to arrive he sent me several quixotic and violent Nepali mafia stories via email. The last one I received says only, “but the dons were afraid of the bird…”, as if he was suddenly interrupted. From information in one of his previous emails, I gathered that my kid had let a man and his pregnant wife share his room on his last night. This man happened to be an ex bodyguard for the Nepali mafia, who still tortured him for leaving their employ whenever they could get their hands on him. Naturally my mind raced to the worst conclusion when I saw that dangling participle of an email. My big hearted kid had blundered into the hands of the Nepali mafia. Of course he had no phone, and no internet connection, there were no replies to my frantic emails. He must have had a false sense of security on his last night, so close to going home, after surviving his rather exotic and at times potentially dangerous gap year. And then on Mother’s Day, he decides to up the ante.
I couldn’t call the airline until noon, when the plane was scheduled to depart, to see if he was on it. The representative told me his ticket had been used, that he should be in Bahrain at that point. I felt slightly reassured, but then couldn’t someone have stolen his passport and ticket and taken his place? My husband had tried to placate me that morning, “He was just being an insensitive kid. There could be several explanations for the that email.” Then he scurried off to work before I could get even more worked up. Later, while I waited outside International Arrivals at JFK, I couldn’t help feeling some trepidation. And then to my relief he walked out, looking like Johnny Depp dressed him as a hippy for a cameo. He had a patchy beard, his shaggy hair was sticking out under the beanie youngest had bought him for Christmas, he was wearing a scarf around his neck, a Kingfisher beer tank top, jeans that were hanging off his slender frame and rolled up at the shins, tied haphazardly with some kind of yarn belt, battered Chaco sandals on his feet (at least he wasn’t barefoot), carrying a huge pack on his back, a day pack in his arms, along with a long bamboo trekking pole. His eyes were twinkling and a smile split his face as he finally spotted me in the crowd. At least his teeth weren’t black. When he got close enough to hug, I almost fell over from the smell. He stunk like a pirate. But he was alive, he was in one piece, and he was home. The best Mother’s Day present ever.
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