Daughter was headed out to a sleepover today when she slipped something into my hand. "I found this in my suitcase. I'm sorry I forgot to give it to you. I hope you're not mad."
Yeah, a homemade Mother's Day card. You can see the front. On the inside:
Loves Bruce Springsteen
Doesn't like annoyances
Working really, really hard
Happy Mother's Day
It's not like she didn't give me a card for Mother's Day. She did. A store-bought one that she picked out with Pete one day more than three months ago. How did this fall through the gap, this homemade card, so beautifully hand-crafted in her fourth grade class more than three months ago? How many times must she have almost spotted it in her suitcase since first putting it in there more than three months ago? She's used the suitcase for countless sleepovers since then. She took it on our five-week European vacation. It's gotten a lot of use, that suitcase, in the more than three months since she stashed the card in it.
Were it me, I'd have trashed it when I found it three months later rather than risk annoying my mother.
But she's not me. And I'd be so annoyed if she were.