My love is like a Paw Patrol Blanket

 

Mother’s Day is Sunday. 

For being a ridiculous, Hallmark holiday, it certainly pulls on the heartstrings of the world, yes? Joyous for those with fantastic moms; heartbreaking for those who have lost parents (or children); devastating for those who struggle to become mothers and can’t. It’s like this massive day created to tug at the edges of a hole that already exists in your heart. Like, I know it’s there…but you don’t have to yank on it once a year, do you? 

I feel like this is a day that can be especially hard for those whose mothers have passed. I know about that firsthand. And of course, I take a moment and remember my mom on Mother’s Day. It would be silly to say that I don’t. It’s always been a day that’s tinged with just the littlest bit of sadness, and I think always will be, regardless of how wonderful my kids are, or how much I celebrate my other mom friends

Truthfully though, I’ve never taken a lot of stock in calendar-created “special days.” Because if you really think back to the super meaningful times of your life, I’m guessing that a good number of them didn’t necessarily revolve around a holiday. And if I’m honest, I don’t remember a single Mother’s Day with my mom. Not a one. I feel like the really profound moments with Mom happened on a random Tuesday, when I was otherwise engaged in the regular ol’ mundane tasks of life. 

Driving to school today with my daughter was one of those moments. And it was stealth. And crushing. 

“Mommy, I want to tell you a secret.” 

“Ok. Lay it on me.” 

“I love you.” 

“Aw, well that’s nice. I love you, too.” 

(Everything is still cool. Humming to radio. Avoiding traffic.) 

“But I want to love you always.” 

“Well, that’s very sweet, dear. You can love me for as long as you want. And I will love you forever as well.” 

(Aww. How sweet. What a cute daughter she’s decided to be this morning. We need ice cream or something.) 

“Mommy. Please don’t die.” 

(SCREEEECHING HALT in brain. What did she just say? Oh my God. Is she worried about me dying? Where is this coming from? Wait, did I just drive past her school? Dammit. Around the block.) 

Stumbling for words…“Honey…I mean. That’s not something to worry about. Not for a long time. And I will love you forever and ever, no matter what.” 

“You mean you won’t ever leave me? You won’t die?” 

(And now, I have tears streaming down my face. How do I explain life and death and love in the five minutes I have, in the car, around the block, so that I can make her feel ok, and still get her into the school building in one piece? Focus. Think. Stop crying.) 

Deep breath. 

“El. You know your Paw Patrol blanket?” 

“Yeah, I sleep with it. It’s my favorite.” 

“Right. And when you go to bed at night, you wrap yourself up in it, right?” 

“Yes.” 

“You wrap yourself up in it because it keeps you safe, and warm, and you feel cozy, and it lets you sleep with such sweet dreams, right?” 

Smiling…to herself, “Yes.” 

“And right now, you don’t have that blanket with you, but you remember that feeling, right? You know what it feels like to be safe and warm and cozy, in your bed at night?” 

“Yup. I love my Paw Patrol blanket.” 

(Deep breath as I try to explain the existential concepts of life and death and love to a four-and-a-half-year-old.) 

“Well, Mommy’s love is kinda like your blanket. It will ALWAYS make you feel safe, and warm, and cozy and cared for EVEN if I’m not with you all the time. Like when you’re a school, you remember that I love you, just like you remember how warm your blanket is, right?” 

She giggles… “Yes.” 

“So you know, that no matter where I am or what I’m doing, or if I’m with you or not… JUST like your warm blanket, you can stop, and remember, and you can always *FEEL* my love, wrapped around you, keeping you safe and warm and happy. And that’s there forever.  You can remember that anytime. No matter what.”

“Oh, ok.” She nods quietly, smiles, and looks out the window, lost in thought. 

And then we pulled up in the drop off line, and the moment was gone. And she jumped out of the car, waved, and said goodbye, like a 4-year-old, without a care in the world; like we hadn’t just had the deepest and most profound conversation of her life thus far. 

“Remember that I love you,”  I yelled after her.

“I love you too, mommy.” 

And off we went. On a random Friday. 

I’m looking forward to Mother’s Day this year, as we’re hosting family in our new home. I’m positive that it will be lovely day. But odds are, my kids aren’t going to remember it. But maybe, just maybe, 50 years from now, on Mother’s Day, Ellie will smile to herself and remember that my love is like a Paw Patrol blanket, and will smile to herself, and hug her children close.

The Good Stuff

 

My father and mother got married later in life. As such, all of my fathers’ relatives had passed well before I was born. I did not know my father’s parents, or really much of anything about my father’s side of the family. As a child, I always wondered what they were like; who they were; what they did. What did their days look like? What kind of relationship would we have had? (Just some of the millions of questions I should have asked my parents before they passed. I so wish I would have taken the time to do this. I will share these things with my own children. I will write them down. I simply must.) 

One of the things I inherited when my father passed away was a large box of my grandmother’s china. It was the “good stuff” that had been boxed up for most of my life. I sort of remember seeing it in the china cabinet, but I don’t remember using it growing up. We might have, but I have no real memories of it. It was just grandma’s china that lived in the cabinet. 

When J and I bought our new home, one of the key components that drew me to this one was its large dining room with built-in china cabinets throughout. See, J and I? We like a good dinner party. Or drinks. Or just having friends over. Of *hosting* things. We both love to cook, love to entertain, and consider that the greatest gift we can give others is bringing them in—feeding them, hosting them, offering hospitality and sanctuary and warmth. Our home, in whatever shape and size it has been, has always been YOUR home, too. 

In every home we’ve had together as a couple (and dear lord, that’s been three different houses in the five years we’ve been married…) our dining room has been central to our home...and *wee.* Enough for a handful of folks, but not nearly enough to really host a party like I would like. 

(I’ll never forget the Thanksgiving that J was deployed and I decided to throw a friends and family Thanksgiving at my house, and because it was just me and Ellie ALL my friends decided to show up. I tried to squeeze like ten or twelve people onto a table made for 6 and nearly had a nervous breakdown when I couldn’t get place-settings down in {what was to me…} a reasonable fashion.) 

When J and I started dating, one of the things that we talked about as a reason for our getting along so well, was that we put equal value into our relationships with our friends. As far as we were concerned, friends were considered family. And for family, we would do anything. Host a dinner; take them in; let them come over in the middle of the night. And we have never had to ask or explain to one another this implicit importance. “Hey, set another place for dinner.” “Hey, I have a friend who needs a place to crash for a month.” The answer has always just been, “well, yes, of course.” 

When J and I got married, we didn’t register for a china pattern. Partially this was because we didn’t have space for it, and knew we’d just have to pack it up and take it from house to house until we “settled down.” And partially it was because I knew I had my grandmother’s china waiting for me. 

This week, as we finished unboxing the main part of our new home, I stumbled upon the box of grandma’s china. And since I now had a china cabinet, I decided that it was time for it to come out of storage for the first time in, literally decades. The first thing that struck me was its simplicity and its beauty. Myself not being particularly fancy, this simple design, very delicate, but classy was exactly what I would have picked out for myself had I had all the china in the world to select from myself. A small grayish blue leaf in the middle, with a silver edging. (I’m not really the pink/ floral/ gold filigree type.) 

Ah yes, this is actually stuff I would use. 

And then I began to unwrap each piece. Piece after piece after piece. Good lord, how much of this stuff was there? 

All told, it was a 14-piece place setting. Plates, salad bowls, soup bowls, cups, saucers, dessert plates, two serving plates, two serving bowls, sugar and cream and gravy boats. Holy cow—a full set of late 1800’s, delicate Japanese china…in a set of 14. Who gets china of this value, at that cost, during that time period in a set of FOURTEEN? Who could possibly need a place-setting for 14? 

We do. 

And they did. 

Exactly right. 

Suddenly, I looked at the dishes differently. I started wondering how much like my relatives I maybe was. Did they set a table for 14 on the regular? Did they host dinner parties? Have friends to the table? Parties into the night with wine and good food and conversation? All of my assumptions about my father’s family were based on the little that I knew about them: They were pre-Depression era, turn of the Century, Midwestern, blue-collar workers and farmers, who were extraordinarily pious and faithful, and to be honest (in my head) a little “colder” than I am. 

But maybe not. 

Maybe they enjoyed a good dinner party. 

As I unwrapped the delicate dishes, one at a time, I started to love the imperfections that come from use—the gravy boat, chipped; a plate broken; a soup bowl quite simply missing. They used these dishes. They loved these dishes. My grandmother’s hands had washed these cups once; had served Thanksgiving dinners on these plates; had no doubt filled the bowls with mashed potatoes. These are things that I will do, too.  

What a lovely connection we now had. 

This weekend, for Mother’s Day, I’m excited to say that J and I are hosting a brunch at our home. It is the first party for our family that will take place in our new dining room—a room that can hold the people we will host. 

And I’ll have the china do so. 

I anticipate that we’ll have our own chips and scrapes to add to the collection. And hopefully my children will have fond memories of these meals, and will carry forward our family’s love of others, good food and hospitality. 

And the china. They'll have the dishes. And all the other good stuff, too.