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A Mother’s Holiday Mothers make the perfect Christmas for their children. They know what present to buy, which cookies to bake, which stories to read. All they ask in return is some token of love, preferably hand-crafted by the child, delivered with a kiss or a smile. My mother is no exception to this rule. When I look back down the narrow halls of my memory for a Christmas moment, my mother is there. Smiling down at me as I open a gift, warning me away from the sweets, singing carols at full volume as we drive to the store. In one memory, she is standing by the perfect Christmas tree, gently draping delicate strands of silver tinsel over the branches. "Slowly!" she commands me. "One at a time! Not in a glob like that!" "But it's too slow! It's getting all over the carpet too! It's sticking to me!" I whine. "It just isn't Christmas without the tinsel, honey." A flash of the two of us, smiling through our tears at the television. "Someday, I want to have a copy of that dress. That gorgeous red speckled with silver, that wonderful white fur trim. It's perfect!" "We'd have to lose like 100 pounds to fit in those!" I mention, laughing. "I think it should be our reward for losing 100 pounds, then. If we lose it, Dad has to get us each one of those!" she stretches her hand toward me, winking. Winking in return, I shake it. A bargain made. A feeling of joy as I remember her decorating the entire house in garlands of green, singing holiday tunes as she goes. "Deck the halls!" she sings, off-key, and too loud. "Mom! Geez! You are wrecking the song!" Singing louder, she dances up to me. Toying with me, she circles, twirling a silver and blue garland around my head. "Fa la la la la!" Gratitude that she picked out just the right present for me. Not some baby gift that would embarrass me, and not some overly adult gift either. Just the perfect gift. "I thought everyone had forgotten!" tears spring into my eyes at the wondrous sight. "Well, Santa knows you still love those books," she smiles. "Although I did have to look all over for it. Nancy Drew just isn't as popular as she used to be." "Oh Mom!" running to her, embracing her. Clutching the dear little book, and my mother, to my heart. Recalling the delightful scents of Christmas morning. Filling the air with the smell of bacon, eggs, and pancakes made from scratch. "Breakfast!" she yells. Covered in flour, wearing an ancient, tattered apron, my mother triumphantly brings a platter stacked high with the golden-brown ovals. Smiling, she motions my hand away as I reach for one, and returns to her griddle. With a deft motion, she scoops up the last warm pancake, and flips it onto my plate. Giggling with delight as I behold the Christmas treat she's created just for me. Snowman shaped, my pancake has chocolate chip eyes and buttons, a curved bacon mouth, and a piece of scrambled egg for a nose. It's almost too good to eat, so I simply smile down at it, then back up at my mother. "Don't forget the syrup," she reminds me. Creating the perfect Christmas turkey. Checking the bird every half hour all morning long, painting it with butter each time. Stirring pots filled to the brim with mysterious creations only to be had this time of year. "Please, Mom?" I ask, not for the first time. Sighing, she finally relents, and hands me the long-necked baster with the bright yellow bulb on top. "Don't burn yourself!" she warns. A hesitant squeeze brings the juices of the turkey up inside the clear plastic tube. Moving it over the top of the browning bird, I release it slowly, one eye on the bird, one eye on my mother. No disapproving look, and no burning sensation, follow my actions. She smiles, and motions for me to continue, and turns away to one of her pots. Pride surges through me that she doesn't need to watch me, because she knows I can do it myself. But I know she watches me still, in that way only mothers can watch without being seen. Finally, the end of the busy day. Sending me off to bed with my booty, warning me not to play all night long. She knows she doesn't have to worry, that I'll be asleep moments after I reach the room. I know she will still check. "Aren't you asleep yet? Aren't you tired?" she stifles a yawn. "I'm tired. I just wanted to say I love you, Mom. It was a great day." She doesn't answer for a moment, and I know she has gotten her reward for a job well done. "I love you too, honey. Go to sleep now." My mother made the perfect Christmas for me. She knew what present to buy, which songs to sing, which movies to watch. All she asks in return is some token of love, preferably hand-crafted by the child, delivered with a kiss or a smile. So I wrote her my memory, so she would know I do remember.
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