“Remoted – Hybrid” – Day 790 (Sunday) – mother’s day

Armed with the knowledge that Mom doesn’t like to go to restaurants on Mother’s Day, my sister and I tossed around a couple ideas. Bring lunch to Mom at her house? Brunch or lunch at my sister’s? We decided that whatever we did, it needed to be what Mom wanted to do. Options were presented, the question was asked, and the answer was “ice cream.”

When we were kids, there were often kitchen projects resulting in crazy looking cakes with messages written in icing and homemade cards and gifts cobbled together from things found in the house. Flowers fashioned from facial tissues and Dad's pipe cleaners were stuck in a soda bottle. Macaroni was strung into jewelry. As we got older, there were gift certificates, clothing items, jewelry, and guesswork. Now we focus more on quality time, and all participate in the planning.

This year, the plan was to meet at Cherry Hill Too Ice Cream in Townsend. We arrived a little before they opened, and were the first customers of the day with our order, carefully chosen from an extensive list of flavors. We got a hot fudge sundae with cappuccino chip, hot fudge sundae with salted caramel pretzel, and strawberry sundae with vanilla ice cream. It was 50 degrees with sun and wind, and thank goodness for picnic tables inside an enclosed porch. It was chilly and yummy. 

After the ice cream adventure, we visited a nearby antique shop we hadn’t been to before. There was a lot of cool stuff, and my sister got a plant stand. There was a large stained glass panel I liked, but there are 100 reasons why it wasn’t bought by me. In theory, I will fire up the glass grinder and dig out the boxes of glass sheets and make my own. Someday.  

After the fun part of the day, we split up to head our respective ways. We aren’t great at coming up with follow-up ideas on the fly. If activities are preprogrammed, we are aces at following an itinerary, but improv isn’t always a strong suit. Or any kind of suit. Had it been less windy, we likely would have sat outdoors for a while after the ice cream. 

It’s the first Mother’s Day without my brother, and it hung in the air like the airborne allergens that have been tormenting me for the past several days. This has been the year with the first Thanksgiving, first Christmas, now first Mother's Day without him. Soon it will be his first birthday without him.

After the “celebrate Mom with ice cream” adventure, it was a quick stop at Market Basket, which was uncharacteristically quiet for a Sunday afternoon. It was a “small shop” of urgently needed items only – half-and-half, soup mixes, frozen mixed vegetables, and canned chicken broth for Winton’s food for when the homemade broth runs out. The broth tip, provided by a wise cousin, has been a lifesaver. Two soup spoons of broth warmed in the microwave and mixed with his kibble, and Winston devours his food like he used to do.

Mom's glamour days.

No candy or cookies were purchased at the grocery store. Shopping with a belly full of ice cream that was on the brink of becoming agitated certainly decreased the browsing. There was no fantasizing that discounted bakery cookies will make me happy, at least until the caloric guilt and ensuing self-loathing kick in. Plus, there were no discounted bakery cookies.

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if there had been children. Would I have gone to glamorous events like Mom? Would I still be married now? Would I have grandchildren? Would the kids and grandkids take me for ice cream on Mother's Day? I can imagine things, but of course, it's impossible to know. Thank goodness for fur babies to dote on. 

Back at home, a bird has been sitting in the nest over the drainpipe all weekend. The BungaLowell may be seeing another avian Mother’s Day soon.

The solo supper of a childless old lady on Mother's Day was a simple, home-prepared dish – frozen tortellini with a tomato pesto cream sauce, capers, kalamata olives, and shredded parmesan. And now lunch is set for tomorrow, so that’s one less thing to worry about in the morning.