In my family, in my mind, certain things are sacred. Take the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus and Mother's Day.
The first two must be given their due.
"Thanks, Mom, for the basket!" my kids will say on Easter morning, to which I reply, "I'll tell the bunny you said thanks."
As for the third, it should be a holy day.
Let's go ahead and call it what it is: Mothers are special creatures who carried other special creatures in their bellies while everybody else was drinking beer and going to Jimmy Buffett concerts. We have been known to share Popsicles with snotty-nosed kids and stay up into the night watching a croupy child's chest to make sure he's still breathing. We are the only people who remember when each child had their last tetanus shot, even at age 28, and which child slept through the night at four months (that would be none).
If most moms can't be rewarded with their fantasy _ a second mother in the house _ they should at least get to corral their children for one Sunday in May to move rocks for the new backyard water feature; read poetry on the back deck and make tofu scramble for Mom.
In this family, "most moms" would be me, as, alas, we have no grandmothers remaining to indulge. And yet, of late, a Mother's Day breakfast in bed has been as far-flung as my now-you-see-them, now-you-don't adult children.
Indeed, Mother's Day this year turned out to be much like Easter, constituting the one weekend when my daughter, Emily, could converge with six friends coming from three states to go hiking 500 miles away.
Easter Sunday was the only time her brother's apparently holiday-challenged and, some would say, heathen, Ultimate Frisbee league, could have its regional tournament.
The eldest of the three couldn't see driving 400 miles from D.C. if none of his siblings were there. And so the annual visit from the bunny was pre-empted, as was my raw, vegan carrot cake shaped in the form of a basket.
Mother's Day was beginning to look much the same, with Emily and friends settling on the month of May for an extended hiking trip (my kids and their friends like to walk long distances) across the West.
Emily's younger brother, Benjie, would be going for part of the trip. And next thing I know, we're talking about a Mother's Day celebration into the summer, long after all the spring flowers are not only planted, but half-dead.
Only thing, Benjie would be leaving in June to be a camp counselor and after that, for a semester-long college program in Canada, which left us looking at a Mother's Day toast with the Christmas cookies.
Certainly, as Mom, I respect the natural order.
While I used to balk at relocating significant days just because they're inconvenient, while I always maintained that celebrating on the actual day is mystically significant, I have since come to respect older children can't hang around adoring the Easter bunny, Santa Claus and Mommy forever.
"It's OK," I prepared to tell the kids last week. "Dad can move the rocks."
But then came the eldest of the trio to save the day.
Stepping in like Atlas, Chris not only offered to bring a strong back to help with the rock-moving, he brought the inclination to sit with me in the kitchen for hours, talking into the hush of the evening about his work and his dreams, about love and life in the big city.
Like we were the only two people on Earth.
Like in the early days, when we kind of were.
"I always liked being with you on Mother's Day," he said.
Sometimes, when you're a mom, you take what you can get, and what you end up getting is better than the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus and all the Mother's Day rock-moving on the cul-de-sac.
In this case, it's the promise of an enduring relationship with your adult child, grown now into a thoughtful young man.
The most sacred thing of all.
