THE BLOG

Featuring fresh takes and real-time analysis from HuffPost's signature lineup of contributors

Charlotte Safavi Headshot

A Mother's Day

Posted: Updated:

Mother's Day is creeping up on us once more: the American Mother's Day, that is, as opposed to the British or Iranian one. (I'm English by birth, Iranian by heritage, American by choice.)

Iranians have a tendency to adopt the holidays of other cultures with surprising ease and unmatched zest, so my Facebook account will no doubt be zinging on Sunday with Happy Mother's Day messages to and from my Iranian family and friends, not to mention the chirpy tweets.

Last year, my nine-year-old American-born son RJ made me an adorable homemade card, but was promptly sent to his room for pitching it at me. He had been engrossed in his morning cartoons before being interrupted by my husband, Ron, to give Mom her special card.

Meanwhile, Ron prepared my favorite breakfast of crisp bacon, a soft-boiled egg with toast fingers, and coffee... lots of coffee. (RJ joined us by then, set the table, repentant and forgiven.)

I didn't even touch the dirty dishes or clean up the kitchen, which after Ron cooking, takes the better part of a day. Instead, I went for a walk, took a bath, fiddled around on the computer. The morning flew by. For lunch, we wolfed down Middle Eastern delights at a local Lebanese restaurant. Then my real mom's day started.

RJ had a Little League game that ran from 1:00-4:00 at a bleak Northern Virginia baseball field, which even the kids were calling Alcatraz. Surrounded by a tall barbed wire fence, Luckett Field had a single narrow entrance at the furthest end of the field to the decrepit bleachers and a dangling sign that read, "Don't Feed the Wildlife." Or was that, "Don't Mess with the Jail Birds"? The field definitely didn't live up to its name. Un-Luckett or Lock-It would've been a better fit.

Anyway, I sat in the front row in a comfy seat with fellow mothers, shaded by pretty parasols and fanned by palmettos, sipping chilled champagne and nibbling assorted canapés. Not! That is, except for the company of other moms. We were sweating profusely in the unseasonable heat, with red dust and tree pollen in our eyes and nasty splinters threatening our backsides, if we shifted position too rapidly.

After that Ron received a text message that he had some unexpected work to take care of, I should have lobbed his BlackBerry over the fence -- Good Eye -- when I had the chance.

I raced home to pick up RJ's skateboard and helmet (which I always carry in my car but he had taken it out and forgotten to put back in), so that he and his buddy could skateboard at the skating park, while Ron went to the office.

Lots of slips and slides, bumps and bruises later, RJ and I met Ron at home in time for dinner. I threw together some leftovers -- lucky for me, at last, complaints were silenced because it was Mother's Day after all.

Now a whole year later, I expect there will be another baseball game or practice on Mother's Day: 'tis the season. I also expect that some well-earned yet short-lived pampering will come my way. Regardless, I'm contemplating adding the British and Iranian Mother's Days to our calendar. You know, buy me some more time.

I'm a lifer after all.

From Our Partners