Sitting at the local Starbucks this morning reading the New York Times on the IPhone when a young guy sits down adjacent waiting for his double mocha latte, or somesuch.  The music is particularly pulse pounding, especially for 8 a.m.  I mention this in passing.

     “Yeah,” he agrees. “Kinda strange.”

     “Maybe they’re trying to pump us up for Mother’s Day,” I suggest.

     “Maybe,” he considers.  “This is my wife’s first Mother’s Day since our baby was born.”

     “So you’ll need the energy, then.”

     He laughed.  “I had to keep telling myself, you can’t forget this Mother’s Day.”

     “It’s one of the differences between men and women,” I proffer.  “My dad was in the jewelery business and, cynic that he was, he always used to tell me, ”Tone, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Christmas, it’s all marketing.’  

     “Red letter days generally mean more to women than men,” I continued.  “And woe is the man who manifests that cynicism openly. But consider the evidence.  Holidays now stretch from January to December in an unbroken line of sales extravaganzas.”

       His name was called, and we said so long.  I wished him and his wife Happy Mother’s Day, then prepared to drive north to Los Angeles with Toya to spend the day with my own dear mother-in-law.  Can’t be cynical about everything.

     Mothers come in all shapes, sizes, and ages.  Fortunately, they all fit neatly into the hearts of those who love them.

END