Hallmark

Monday morning in Topeka and my son is at work, the baby is sleeping, and his GF is taking advantage of that by napping. I'm doing dishes while my second cup of morning coffee is brewing, having taken a short reprieve from work and it dawned on me I never wished my grandbaby's mother a Happy Mother's Day - her first Mother's Day as a mother.

I wondered why.

Those who know me well (admittedly she does not) know that I abhor not only the artificial value placed upon recurring arbitrary date assigned events, but the idea behind, "tradition" as a whole, and its celebration. Especially the pressure surrounding that celebration as a reflection of morality. Later that evening at dinner I apologized for my oversight and wished her a very happy belated Mother's Day. My son (who does know me well) laughed. I broke into a soliloquy about my narrow field of view when reminiscing earlier about the oversight and realized that I was limiting my perspective to my own lovers who had children of their own (given where I currently reside in the arc of life - being divorced with deceased parents), and wanting to stretch that envelope further, included a handful of friends and co-workers in the same generational bracket. I'd failed to account for anyone in the subsequent and prior generations.

My son and his GF both were graciously amused, but I did warn her that my acknowledgement in no way was a guarantee of future remembrance; that I would likely forget every year moving forward. After dinner, my son brought coffee to the table and as we're sipping and visiting, he showed me his cup, one of those ubiquitous, "World's Greatest Dad" mugs. We locked eyes. His sparkled like my father's used to, and I knew he knew I knew.

My firstborn's first time as a father himself. "Wait...I never wished you a happy Father's Day, did I?"

He could hardly contain his laughter.