I remember my wife’s first Mother’s Day vividly. Clay’s older brother, our first child, was about eight months old, and he had a fever. I stayed home with him, while my wife visited her mother. The little guy did not want to be put down, so I spent a long afternoon wandering the house carrying him, talking to him and feeding him liquid acetaminophen at appropriate intervals. When my wife came home around dinner time, she took him from me, and he promptly vomited all over her. Welcome to motherhood. That became the yardstick by which we have measured all subsequent Mother’s Days. (“At least no one threw up on me.”) Until this year.
Now that Clay is using a keyboard to communicate with us after five years of silence, this Mother’s Day brought something new.
Late Sunday afternoon my wife asked Clay if he had anything he wanted to say. Yes, he did.
That was followed by this exchange.
Top that, Hallmark.