"A Moment of discontent"

I lay in bed listening to sweet music as the birds realize that the feeder has once again been filled. It is Sunday, Mother's Day at 6:45 am, and I am relishing the thought of lingering under my sheets, planting some flowers and even perhaps stealing a kiss from son. I always tell Jon that he should not worry about gifts and that a card would be lovely. My favorite being the homemade kind that carry a syrupy message and an awkward picture. I have to admit I am a card/letter junky. I have an addiction since he was little for little messages that say "I think of you". Allen does not quite understand my "thing" with cards or why they can make or break a day.

I am not sure which events made me a little weary of the day ahead, the pains in my back that kept me up most of the night, Jonathan breaking his pinky and needing a cast the day we were suppose to leave and meet Allen in PA (he's been there a week now trying to sort things out) or just this overall feeling that things were strained with Allen.

So here I am laying in bed trying to just concentrate on the world outside my window when from the other room I hear a bellowing, "MA!!", "There is banging and like glass breaking coming from the closet", I roll my eyes knowing exactly what it is. I turn to Allen, "oh no not today," apparently squirrels have no regard for Mothers Day. Jon comes running to our room looking wide eyed and flipped out. "What the heck is that, you need to go check". Allen rolls over and says, "wow I am really surprised that he came today, its been a while".

A couple of days ago after investigating our squirrel problem and figuring out the best way to deal with the problem, Allen set up a rat trap. I was OK with this only I didn't want to be there when it happened. You see the squirrel lives in our attic and comes into the house when we've vacated through a hole in the closet in Jon's bedroom. I never thought it would really enter the inner part of our home, especially while we are there. For the most part the squirrel has not damaged anything (that we can see) it just kind of comes in and leaves it nuts about the house.

"Please go check," I ask Allen dreading the reality of it. Allen goes to check and says, "yep, its the squirrel, I am surprised that he's not dead," we'll give it a few minutes". I tell Jon to go to the other room and try to go back to sleep. He shakes his head and walks to the other room, coming back a few minutes later to tell us that he can still hear it thrashing about. I turn to Allen, "you have to do something", I start to cry, "I can't stand knowing that its alive and suffering". Allen gets up and goes to take care of it. I hear him go about and when he comes back, I don't ask. I don't want to know.

And so this is how I start my morning on Mother's Day. I realize that my son has forgotten and I try to pretend its OK. I go about making coffee and hoping that he will soon remember and present me with my precious card. After a couple of hours I realize that its not going to happen and I want to cry. I don't want to display this at home so I tell them that I am going for a drive and from the computer and the TV I hear a united "see you later". I am devastated for I think that I ask for little from my son and husband alike. To not be acknowledged on Mother's Day made me feel forgotten and unappreciated. I drive about, then end up at Walmart (where else do forlorn mothers go?) where I waltz the isles aimlessly looking for purpose.

When I get home, I find a very embarrassed boy, who approaches me with a hug and a kiss and says sadly, "Happy Mothers Day Mom". My niece Veronica had called while I was out to wish me a Happy Mothers Day.....awakening my son to his small blunder. I love Jon more than anything, and I don't like to guilt him but that day I could not hide my disappointment. I miss the days of sloppy wet kisses, macaroni picture frames, painted portraits of me looking like a stick figure with funny hair. I called my mom for the third time that day in case she felt a little like I did, and also, selfishly, to feel the way one does when one speaks to the person who loves them the most in the world.