It is Mother’s Day morning at 8:06 AM and all I can think about is a father. My children’s father.
It starts the day before Mother’s Day. Every grocery store, every flower shop, every gift or women’s boutique you enter is unusually filled with men, their children in tow searching for something to give mom or make her for brunch. I hear in one aisle, “Mom loves Pop Tarts!” “No, she doesn’t.” I think, nice try. The sight and sound of it warms my heart and at the same time breaks it.
It’s the same feeling I have on the football field watching the dad’s coach their sons or on Boys Scout camp outs where they are all geared up and outfitted like they were heading to Mt. Everest instead of a local park. My husband loved the beach, so there especially, watching them throw the ball to their sons or helping their daughter’s build a sand castle or playing a game of Kadima.