It’s that time of year again, where we celebrate motherhood and all the sacrifices those great ladies made for us.  I like doing that.  What I feel uncomfortable with is when people try to celebrate me and my brand of motherhood.  I have learned over the years that I really need to brace myself for when the kids give me my gifts.

This dread at gifts, specifically cards, derives from the time when my oldest daughter was in preschool.  She presented me with a little questionnaire that her teacher had helped her fill out.  It contained my daughter’s guesses as to my weight and age.  Awesome.  But the cherry on top was what she thought my favorite food was.  She told her teacher to write, “Lean Cuisines.”  I guess because I was eating a lot of those?   (I had just had baby #3 and was desperate for the hot lunch/portion control option.)  I can only imagine the teacher’s reaction as she filled in that blank.  I hope it was hysterical laughter and not pity.

As I was fixing my lunch today (which happened to be a salad wrap because I cannot get enough of those lately), I heard my kindergartener squeal, “YES!  I got it right!  Your favorite food IS salad!”  And then I realized what month it was and what kind of card I will probably be getting on Sunday.  At a playdate later in the afternoon, I heard her discussing answers with her classmate:

My daughter:  Where did you put that your mom likes to go?

Little friend:  To the temples.

My daughter:  Oh.  I put my mom likes to go shopping.

Niiiiice!  I texted the little friend’s mother (who is a dear friend of mine) about what her daughter had put and what mine had put.  She laughingly replied that she had succeeded in teaching her child about keeping up appearances.  Time for me to work on that one.  I can imagine the conversation now:

Me: Darlings, when your teacher asks you simple questions designed to humiliate me, please try not to portray Mommy as a materialistic fad dieter, mmkay?

All Kids: Of course!  Happy Mother’s Day!

That would be the best gift ever.

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