Last week, the day finally dawned on some nasty dental surgery that had been looming for a very long time. I have a hate-hate relationship with my dentist that has endured many downs and even-lower-downs over the past 20 years so I was nervous about it and, at times, even a little woe-is-me weepy.
Unfortunately, that weepiness was apt to catch me in the act of eating.
At the dinner table.
In front of my sons.
So much for the image of the strong, sweetly smiling, placidly enduring Mother figure.
Oh well. She was a figment of my imagination anyway, ripe for mid-life dismissal (2 x Boys Negotiating Adolescence + 1 Mother Enduring Menopause = Death of Mother Martyr).
Plus, I’d rather they know I’m human, even if it has me blubbering over the mashed potatoes.
So . . . as I said . . . doomsday dawned. And what should I find, taped to the door as I stumbled into the garage at 6:30 in the bleeping morning, than this note:
Happy ones, this time.
And grateful, too.
The years of trying to set a good example, of striving to instil solid values, have borne fruit that I got to taste first hand.
Lately, my husband has been trying to impress upon our sons how important it is to treat others with kindness. At the end of the day, of high school, of a lifetime, what people will remember about you is how you made them feel.
And right now, days later, I still feel like the luckiest Mom on the planet.