I spent my Mothers’ Day morning dragging brush to our burn pile. My neighbors, part-time islanders up for the weekend, waved to me from inside their cabin where they appeared to be having brunch. I imagined them shaking their heads over me: “Poor thing, no breakfast in bed for her, no restaurant? Out there working at nine in the morning…hope she got flowers at least.”

Truth is, I was in my element. With out disparate schedules, the Mate and I rarely get to do work projects together any more. On a lovely, sunny day, it feels like a gift. And it’s good marriage glue, besides.

So I was thinking about Mothers’ Day when I got to the burn pile and discovered what The Mate had found a day or two before when the last big pile of brush went up in flames:

Fresh-roasted free-range eggs, anyone?

Our neighbor’s chickens? Not the best parenting decisions.

That reminded me of the swallows we’re usually battling this year, trying to keep them from nesting in our garage–or, more accurately, from pooping all over our garage. The nesting ain’t the problem. But there’s no picture of that, ’cause they haven’t shown up this year. Could it be that we’ve finally terrorized the poor things sufficiently, knocking their nest attempts down with a broom and blocking their entry off with deer netting?

So, the swallows get an A in parenting this year. At least so far.

And then there’s the robin who built this nest on the ladder The Mate attached to the side of our house:

Cozy little fixer-upper, good schools nearby…

As you can see, we allowed this nest to stay. Clearly excellent choices on the part of those bird-parents. Right?

Secret to a great life: choose parents who make good choices.

Of course not. These parental ratings are all artificial constructs I’m applying in accordance with the rules I’m setting: THIS ground is for burning. THIS is for storage. THAT yard…yes, good. Good bird. Good choice.

Suddenly the parallel with people was overwhelming. Parents raising children in “bad neighborhoods”–how much choice do they have? In our society, who are the chickens, the swallows, the robins? Who’s in charge of the burn pile, the garage, the ladder on the side of the house? 

The Best Mothers Day Present: When Your Kid Becomes Your Colleague–and You Still Like Each Other

My Mothers Day started with a three a.m. bike ride, and it was Son Two’s idea.

He’s just been hired to work part-time this summer at Holly B’s Bakery (“Holly’s Buns Are Best”)  where I’ve been working for the past five years. He’ll mostly be working the counter and, later on during high season, baking at night. But this Mothers Day, a slot came open for assistant morning-baking. Son Two filled it.

“Can we ride in?” he asked. Now, I know your average almost 23 year-old is not his/her best self at 3 a.m., even when pulling some kind of all-nighter. Asking one to wake up then, bundle up and bike 11 miles in the dark, well…I wouldn’t have asked. But since he offered? Hell yeah! Let’s ride!

Son Two’s reward: getting to spend the next nine hours having his Head Baker mom tell him what to do. He did fantastic.

Making croissant dough: roll, butter, fold, chill, repeat.

Making croissant dough: roll, butter, fold, chill, repeat.

He messed up not once (which is more than I can say for my first disastrous pan of brownies assistant baking shift). He made beautiful food. And on our ride home, he told me he appreciated my showing him how to do things right.

Young Man With Macaroons

Young Man With Macaroons

Breakfast in bed is great. So is going out for brunch. But my best Mothers Day present EVER is the realization that my younger son is someone I would hire or sign up to work with, even if I’d never met the kid. I mean man.

Like mother, like son? I should be so lucky.

Like mother, like son? I should be so lucky.

Mothers Day stories, anyone? I love hearing from you!

Happy Mothers Day From Whatshisface

These birds can all recognize their babies' voices. Not this chick, though. (courtesy AndreAnita, Shutterstock)

These birds can all recognize their babies’ voices. Not this chick, though. (courtesy AndreAnita, Shutterstock)

Actual phone conversation on Mothers Day:

Scene: My workplace, a busy, busy little bakery

[ring, ring]

Me: I’ll get it! Hello, Holly B’s, this is Gretchen.

Male Voice: Happy Mothers Day.

Me: Uhhh…Thank you.

[befuddled silence while I wait for Male Voice to tell me his special order, or ask me what time we’re open till]

Male Voice: It’s your son. Casey.

Me: Oh my god I’m the worst mom ever I don’t even recognize my child’s voice even after 21 years of practice! Oh. Hi, babe…

So go ahead, all you moms who got taken out to brunch, all you daughters and sons who bought flowers. Go on and brag on yourselves a little: what did you do? How wonderful was it? I’ll listen. I can’t really get any more embarrassed, so I might as well be happy for you!