Joy the Baker

When it comes time for a little human to call me Mom, there are several things I hope for.  Here are a few of those hopes:

I hope that I’ll no longer run screaming from the room at the sight of a spider.  Mom has to take care of the spider… that’s sort of part of the deal as Mom, right?  Maybe can I always get away with saying, “Let’s go get Daddy to take care of that spider.”  I hope that works.

I hope that a deep affection for pickles and pancakes, though not necessarily on the same plate, is hereditary.

I hope that I have as good a pair of Mom Hands as my mom.

Most importantly, I hope that I create as patient and loving, supportive and hilarious a family as was provided for me.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of you who have the patience and care to raise new, happy, and lovely people in the world.

Here’s some dreamy Raspberry Lemonade, and all sort sof recipes that you might consider making for your mom and family this weekend.

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I’ll be the first to admit that I had some pretty ugly teenage years.

Sure. I had awkward limbs, a face full of acne, and was otherwise unfortunate looking, but I’m talking about what an utter brat I was for a solid two (plus) years.

Did you go through some seriously bratty years?  Just say yes.  We’ve all been there, right?  If you try to tell me you were a perfect angel, I just won’t believe you.

I seem to remember the distinct feeling that I knew everything there was to know about the world at the ripe old age of fifteen.  I thought most everything was beyond “annoying”, and I used that word… to death.  If eye rolling were an Olympic sport… gold medal… me.

I also had this obnoxious habit of assuming that everything that belonged to my mother, somehow also belonged to me.  From her favorite stationary, to her hidden stash of chocolates and the entire contents of her jewelry box, I acted as though it was all up for grabs.  Terrible, right?  Only when I was out in the world trying to save up my pennies to buy myself a nice box of tea, or my favorite rose lotion, did I realize that my mom deserved to have her treats without my mittens all up in them.

While I can take my obnoxious teenage years back, I suppose my real penance will come when my own teenage daughter pillages my valuables.  Until that joyous time, here’s what I’m going to do:  I’m going to give one of you a jar of beautiful French Lavender Honey.

Leave me a comment in this post and tell me this:

Tell me how your mom is spectacular, despite your possible teenage indiscretions.

I know a lot of you are moms, tell me what makes it all worthwhile.

I’d really like for this lovely honey to go to a Mom… it is, after all, Mother’s Day.  Maybe that means you’re a hard working Mom and need a tea and toast break.  Maybe that means you win this honey and give it to your Mom as a “thanks for being awesome” gift.

Comments close Thursday at midnight Pacific Standard Time and the winner will be chosen by the Random Number Generator.  Happy Mother’s Day!

I was notorious in my family for being the child that could only be comforted by my mother.

Most playful family weekends, the scene went something like this:  I’d be in the backyard playing with my little sister, my dad and Scamper, the family dog on our creaky, rusted and awesomely fun swing set.  My favorite move was to swing as high as I could, count to three with my sister and jump out of the swings onto the grass.  Sounds innocent enough, but I was always getting my little girl fingers stuck in the chains of the swing as I dismounted.

I’d hit the ground and look at my dad with the silent cry face… the face kids give their parents before the completely lose it and burst into tears.  My dad would invariable come over and try to talk me out of losing it, but I was already halfway into the ugly cry by then.  It was then that no one but my mom could handle the cajoling and kissing of my finger.  I’d run into the house, screaming like a maniac and clutching my (not even bleeding) finger, looking for my mother who had found just a few moments peace to take a shower or a short nap.  I’d force myself into her lap, lift the offending, pained finger, and wait for the mom comfort to blanket me.  So good.

Come to think of it, that swing set caused as many injuries as it did smiles.

Come to think of it, jumping off the swing set is always worth the hurt finger.

Come to think of it, this pudding has much the same healing qualities as my mom’s lap.

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