Fragrance of Forgiveness

"Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet leaves on the heel that crushes it."

I recall reading that quote somewhere, and I liked it. However, I am not really sure that violets actually have a scent. I shall have to conduct research on another day, in another time split continuum, in an alternate reality.

An alternate reality where sons remember their mothers on Mother's Day and wait on them hand and foot. Ah, tis true. (Heavy sigh). I was completely forgotten on Mother's Day. (Heavy, heavy sigh). I am left with several possible explanations as to why I was forgotten.

1. I am truly not a mother. Perhaps the nine months of gestation I underwent was a mere figment of my imagination. Perhaps the 8 (eight) hours of labor were truly the results of delusional delirium brought on by gas bubbles caught in my lower intestines due to too much raw onions on a hamburger. Perhaps the demonic-like, guttural sounds emitting from my vocal cords as I was imagining I was pushing something the size of a football through something the size of a garden hose (mind you, a highly elasticized garden hose) were only the result of a rich imagination brought about by temporary insanity. Perhaps the decision to not have drugs (and thus, feel every stinking pain associated with childbirth) so I might protect my unborn child and give him a better chance at an alert arrival once vacating that garden-hose size environment, was all a fantasy brought on by wishful thinking. All the weight gain, all the swollen hands and feet, all the stretch marks, all the gross protrusion of a once-flat belly, all the lower back pain, all the ugly maternity fashions, all the alien features that transformed my 25-26 year old body into a yellow-squash look-a-like, all the endless days of anticipating, all the doctor visits, all the poking and prodding...were caused by early onset dementia.

2. My child was abducted by an alien. Aliens do not celebrate Mother's Day (or so I'm told). This is mainly because they eat their mothers for nourishment once they are hatched from their reptilian eggs. I have noticed some scale-like white things on my supposed-son's head.

3. I don't really exist. I am a figment of my imagination. Now, if this were really true...I am sure I would imagine a person who is adored, waited upon and lavished with roses, cards & special thoughtful gifts upon their imaginary celebration of Mother's Day.

4. My child is brain dead. Ahhh, this could be a really good explanation. There always seems to be a vacant, glazed look in his eyes whenever he appears to be awake. Left alone in a mall, park, or educational zone, there is always this look of confusion plastered across his face. Most questions are answered with "huh?" Many times, when I call his name, he doesn't answer - as if he doesn't know his own name. Sometimes I find him gazing at himself in the bathroom mirror, as if trying to understand or figure out who or what he is. And yet, brain dead people don't constantly ask, when you pick them up from school, "what's for dinner?" In fact, brain dead people don't go to school! Perhaps the symptoms are only geographical and only manifest themselves at home. So he is infected with homeus brain-dead-ius.

5. My child is a teenager. Enough said. I must forgive my child for this unintended, unthoughtful, oversight in celebrating Mother's Day. Tis not his fault. Really. It is my fault! Oh, I only have myself to blame! Okay, I feel so much better now. I was supposed to remind him of this important day. I was supposed to take him to the mall and give him the money to purchase a thoughtful gift (that I suggested). I was supposed to take said gift and wrap it up creatively (as only I can do).

The mystery is solved.

In all fairness...I did receive recognition on Mother's Day. By my own mother!

Boy Forgiven!
I did receive a kiss on the cheek and a hug from Jameson. He did wish me a Happy Mother's Day. And, he did bring back from his Washington D.C. trip, a book entitled, Bunny Suicides. It is quite funny, in a very twisted way.

The boy was brought home safely from his Washington D.C. trip. I am thankful for him. I love him dearly, both the good, bad and the forgetfulness! I distinctly remember the very first time I heard his heartbeat. It was so fast...like the rapid beating sound hummingbird wings would make, if they made sound. I remember every detail of every moment God has granted to me with him. I thank God daily for Jameson. And, I pray he will become a man after God's own heart!

The best Mother's Day gift was having him home. Safe. Happy. Hungry. Being Jameson.