I had the best Mother’s Day.

We spent the morning at home and then went all the way to Brooklyn for a sandwich (*our* sandwich) and it could not have been a better day.

Brooklyn knew how to make a mom feel good. It was beautiful. People were out: moms and babies and kids and dads and dogs and beautiful, tattooed people holding iced coffees.

We were stopped by a group of women, tourists from Italy, saying mi amore, mi amore! Our son was making a cute tough-guy face in his little Carhart overalls and they were all over it. One of them asked to take her picture with him. We were a little confused but also happy enough to represent American Baby to our international friends. I’m not going to pretend that didn’t feel good. Husband, if that was an elaborate Mother’s Day set-up, you did well.

My stepson spent the day with his mother, but not without handing me a bag of candy fruit slices as he ran out the door. He is a better kid than I was, that is for sure. If he made no acknowledgement of Mother’s Day to me, I would not have held it against him. But he did, and it meant more to me than I was able to communicate to him.

And now my son and I are sitting outside, him gnawing on a peach. I can hear lawn mowers and our neighbor’s pop music playing as she cleans her kitchen and I could not be happier than I am right now.

Image credit: me. A glimpse.


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