Mother’s Day was so much fun when the kids were little. Every year I’d wait to see what they would come up with..breakfast in bed, a homemade craft, a washed car, a cleaned up kitchen or maybe even a gift from the mall…if dad was “on the ball.” Of course in our ultra-competitive home there was a significant amount of one-upmanship that took place as well as each kid jockeyed for position as the giver of the best gift.
One Mother’s Day, my youngest daughter treated me to an at-home, spa treatment. I was ushered outside to lay on a chaise, draped in towels and slathered in about $27 worth of cream from various bottles. I had my nails soaked until my finger tips turned into shriveled raisins, three layers of epidermis sanded off my elbows and my legs massaged until they were numb. At one point, after I had been laying there alone for a while, I called out to my little spa-girl to ask if the session was over. “NOOO MOM!! Don’t move!” came the command through the kitchen window, followed by a rush of activity and a soaking wet wash cloth slapped over my face.
No sooner had I stopped choking on the water I inhaled, than I was jolted by the most excruciating sting on my foot. I reflexively snapped into a sitting position, wash cloth flopping into my lap. My daughter jumped as well, as a black rock went sliding across the floor. “What was that?” I whimpered, grabbing for my ankle. My poor daughter just stood there with a bucket in her arm and a pair of tongs in her hand, “they’re hot rocks mom, I saw pictures in your magazine of a lady getting a spa treatment with hot rocks…”
Ahh yes, Mother’s Day….I can laugh about this story because the red mark eventually went away and the microwave didn’t explode while my little girl heated up the rocks she’d collected from our garden.
Precious, precious memories…truly the gifts that keeps giving.