Mother's Day plus four --

I have to admit that I like Mother's Day a lot!!  As nice as birthdays and Christmas and Valentine's Day are, there is something rather special about being annually congratulated for procreating, especially when one's children are grown and they have had much time to reflect on their advent into the human race vis a vis my connection with their father.  It's even better when there are hugs and kisses and "we love you, mom" kinds of cards and notes and flowers and such.  I got a wonderful steak dinner out of hubby this year in the company of one of my kids along with flowers delivered at my door (always really special), potted lilies, miniature roses, and an ecard or two.  All in all, it was a very special day.

But I had to think, also, that once the hubbub has died down, life goes on pretty much as usual.  This year the Los Angeles Dodgers gave away a tote bag to all the mothers who came to the baseball game at Chaves Ravine in Los Angeles, and it struck me as being a bit bizaare--much like my humor, I'm afraid.

Now why would I want another tote bag?  I already have a permanent pitch and bend to my back which started quietly years ago when my babies were coming fast and furiously and the diaper bags were multiplying in the back seat of our car at night when no one was looking. The curvature of the spine was barely seen by anyone, including me.   Having become very  used to carrying half my infant supplies everywhere I went, I began to insure that the bend and permanent leaning of my body to the left was accelerated by carrying one of the biggest purses on the planet.  I not only spent years carrying almost everything my kids couldn't manage and that my hubby was sure to forget if I didn't remember it for him, I then bought even bigger purses so that I could be the pack animal for my grandkids, all of whom seemed to have inherited the gene that forces all little people to make sure that mom and grandma have sufficient junk to fill those huge purses.  Now the Los Angeles Dodgers are going to give me a tote bag, as if I need another recepticle for junk, toys, headache pills, facial tissues, hand cream, money, cards, reading glasses, make-up and such, cell phone and all its attendant extras, along with everything my hubby gives me to carry because "my pockets are full and you've got that big purse, anyway."  Needless to say, I passed on the Andre Ethier Mom's Tote Bag from the Dodgers.  I bet he gave one to his mom, though.

So Mother's Day has come and gone.  But the hugs were genuine and the flowers live on, and the memory of all the good things we shared again as a family remain solidly ensconced in my memory.    And in spite of my weird response to their offer, God bless the Dodgers for thinking of me.  After all, it's the thought that counts, isn't it?