It’s Been A Mother…I Mean It’s Mother’s Week

Heather and her mother.

For some people Sunday was the most important day of the year. While others consider it a conspiracy perpetrated by the greeting card industry, and Hallmark in particular, the less cynical find the second Sunday of May to be a day of inspiration. Is it not a virtue to take a moment out of our too busy to do anything lives to render a little gratitude and appreciation for the one person without whom we would not exist?

In this world that looks for irony in nearly every situation we face, it seems to be the epitome of irony that the name given to our revered matriarch is the term we use to lower someone to the most profane position. Our language has become so callous in regard to the sanctity of this most important social role, to the point where simply changing the final syllable from er to a makes it all right to defame the institution. Further defamation can be obtained simply by changing it to an adjective and adding it to the most vulgar of profanity, and still not having to invoke the entire syntax but merely the initials, m. f.

Heather's boyfriend and his mother.

Needless to say, this is a prime example of how women continue to be assaulted for no male has ever complained about being called an f. f.  Should any reader know of an instance that contradicts this statement, I would gladly print a retraction.

Over the past fifteen years living in Southern California, my siblings have joined together with me and taken our mother to brunch on her special day. At the same time we saluted the maternal contributions of my sister, wife and sister-in-law. This year, however, the one daughter who has returned to the O.C. decided she and her boyfriend would like to take her mother (i.e. my wife) and his mother to their favorite restaurant.

Even with the trifecta of scandals the president faced this week: Benghazi talking points, IRS pressuring conservative groups, and covert analysis of media phone records, he must be glad to only have Michelle’s mother to appropriate time to the second Sunday in May. Family politics, especially when they involve changes, no matter how natural they seem in the course of evolution, require diplomatic skills far surpassing those of the finest of foreign ministers and secretaries of state.

My brother, my mother and me.

Fortunately, all was not lost. My sister, who spends far more time in Southern California than either my brother, my mother or myself spend in her central coast region where she lives, was unable to make it here for this Mother’s Day. However, my brother did take our mother along with his family to brunch at a nearby restaurant. We joined him and Mom at a courtyard outside the restaurant where they had eaten, and shared some cool conversation in the shade of a few trees. As a result, none of the lovely souls that perpetuate our family were reduced to an adjective.