My mom texted me a video a few days ago featuring a poem about an 80-year-old woman who wakes up to find herself magically back in her 38-year-old body, living one day in her 38-year-old life. She sees her younger body and her small children differently, with the perspective of someone who already knows how quickly that life will pass. Accompanying this video, my mom sent me a message saying, “I thought you would appreciate this sentiment…this is how it is when you get past all of the chaos.”
It was a sweet message and a poignant video. I probably would have been truly touched, if not for the unfortunate timing of when I received it. When my phone dinged, I was in the middle of breaking up a fight between the twins that included this exchange:
Jack: Mom, Charlie put his hand in my buttcrack to get my attention.
Charlie: I did not!
Jack: YES HE DID, YOU CAN SMELL HIS HAND.
It was, admittedly, not the ideal moment to receive a meditation on cherishing motherhood.
That’s the ironic thing about nostalgia—it’s hard to be nostalgic about something until it’s already gone. Even when I remind myself that this part of life is temporary—that the kids will grow up and move away, and that someday I’ll miss being needed—it’s hard to cultivate nostalgia for buttcracks.
And yet.
I was cleaning out my nightstand earlier today—one of the only spaces in the house where I allow myself to have any hoarding tendencies. As a result, the drawers are stuffed with papers, greeting cards, old photos, and drawings from my kids, many of which I had completely forgotten.
Going through those drawers, I intended to throw things away. Instead, I kept finding homemade card after homemade card—some for birthdays, some for past Mother’s Days, some going back to when the twins could barely scribble and Rebecca’s writing was mostly illegible.
Jack’s cards, through the years, have remarkable consistency—they contain few words but usually include a complicated maze on one page for me to solve.
Charlie’s cards confirm that Charlie has apparently always been exactly this much Charlie. One card of his from third grade reads, “Mom, I love how your always their for me and how you watch movies with me. Also you owe me an iPhone.” Another card from a year later points out that Mother’s Day isn’t until the weekend, but he decided to get a jump on it by making this card on a Tuesday. “Up through today, you have been nice all year.”
Rebecca’s most recent Mother’s Day card incorporated Neal the Seal, a Tasmanian elephant seal she and I follow through news clips as he annually terrorizes a small town. “Have a Neal-tastic day, mom!!!”
As my kids get older, they’ve begun picking up on the running banter between Mike and me—and joining in. Jack frequently signs his cards “your favorite son.” Charlie recently added the postscript, “You can admit I’m your favorite child—even if it’s only to spite Becca.”
Then there are the gifts earnestly given, with no idea of the secret hilarity they will inspire. A year and a half ago, Jack gave me some perfume as a Mother’s Day gift—the scent was called Mysterious Beach.
Obviously, Mike and I were thrilled by the title alone. “Stop being such a Mysterious Beach,” Mike remarked as I told him I would be running errands after work one day.
“Mysterious Beach sounds like an amazing daytime soap opera,” I said as we made the bed. “Sexy nightclubs. Ridiculous drama. At least one sibling presumed dead.”
“I’d binge six seasons of Mysterious Beach,” Mike agreed.
Jack was delighted by our enthusiasm, without entirely understanding its source. “Wear your perfume, Mom! I’ll buy more once it runs out.”
As for the perfume itself, the name isn’t entirely off-base. It combines an overly heady floral scent with something swampy and reminiscent of sun-warmed tide pools. Somehow, it smells both floral and biologically active. I wear it only as often as necessary, so Jack knows I love and appreciate his gift.
When I look at the bottle, I’m reminded of the video my mom sent, and I know that one day the perfume will run out. The Mother’s Day gifts will become more polished, and possibly less hilarious.
Maybe someday I’ll miss the swampy smell of Mysterious Beach. Maybe I’ll miss breaking up arguments about buttcracks.
I’m not there yet.
For now, Mysterious Beach sits on my nightstand, smelling vaguely like flowers, low tide, and maternal obligation.
It’s my favorite Mother’s Day gift.
