I’m not a hoarder, but after rooting around in the storage closet, I just unearthed three boxes stuffed with homemade cards.
Solid gold.
My rule for the kids is that they have to make cards. Always. They can’t buy them, which is why I’m happily buried in old, glittery construction paper artwork that wishes me a nice birthday and Mother’s Day in sweet, highly original ways. It’s an impressive pile. I can’t believe I’ve been a mom for so long … or that I’ve had so many birthdays.
One year — I’m guessing it was 2009 or ’10 by the almost complete disregard for grammar, spelling, capitalization and punctuation — I got a rap for Mother’s Day.
I’m pretty sure this was meant to be a performance piece only because it was written in pencil on a small strip of highly patterned scrapbook paper that had been definitely used once before.
It begs to be shared:
“This is two the best mother comeing from your daughters brother
your the one who makes me happy even though this sounds crappy
your the best at your job even though you shoud’ve named me bob
your the best
your even better then david west
I would have picked you an outfit but my taste is a crime so I sat down and made some rymes
that was my rap even though it sounded like crap
happy mother’s day”
Awwww. Now, who else out there has a Mother’s Day gift that incorporates “crap” two different ways? Pretty special.
The cards, some printed off the computer, some jotted in crayon, show my evolution from “mommy” to “mom.” Now that two out of three have entered their teen years, at least one kid would wholeheartedly disagree with the 2006 card proclaiming me “best mom ever.” Those old cards are a nice reminder that, once upon a time, I didn’t completely suck.
Let’s continue down momery lane, shall we? Ooooh, here’s a printed gift certificate for a free back rub from “yours truley.” Stapled to it: a handwritten notice that my certificate was not valid on Christmas.
Wait — what’s this I just found? Instructions for a paper shredder that we may or may not still own. Well, that’s not sentimental at all. I take it back — maybe I am a hoarder after all.
Ah, here’s a legitimate keepsake: Mother’s Day card, from No. 3, that’s carefully folded into fourths and features black and white printed photos of flowers and him, his skin scribbled in dark brown. Now, for those unfamiliar with our family history, this might come across as uncomfortably Ted Danson-ish. But here’s the back story: Until he was 7, he thought he was African-American.
Then there’s this example of the kind of heartfelt poetry that only a girl under 11 could write:
“Your hair is like the ocean
Your eyes are like the biggest mountain
Your nose is the greenest meadow
And your lips are like the sunset
And you are my world.”
I don’t know about you, but I was worried about where that green part was going since it was paired with nose. It’s not like I don’t already have one kid who liberally uses the word crap.
So to all you moms out there, have a great Mother’s Day. And to all of you who have moms, go make her a card — or better yet, write a rap.
