“I want some!” the Doodle proclaims, pointing to my glass of Chardonnay.
“No, sorry sweetie, that’s not for little girls,” I reply. “That’s Mommy juice.”
The living room floor is littered with Megablocks, there is a pile of laundry at the bottom of the basement stairs and a two-day-old stack of newspapers that has yet to find its way to the recycle bin. But I’m doing my best to ignore that irritating twitch of compulsion to putter. After all, it is, technically, my “day off”.
So I’m kicking back with a glass of 2004 Daniel Lenko Signature Chardonnay instead, tummy full of smokey chicken goodness, pondering the meaning of motherhood.
This is my third Mother’s Day (well, fourth if you count Doodle in utero. I got cards and presents then, too, but I was still blissfully ignorant to the total, life-altering chaos in which I would soon be completely immersed.)
Being a mom scared me shitless at first, and there were times when I was ready to just hand the baby over to the first available set of arms and run for the hills. Mercifully, that changed. Now, I get a kick out of watching this miniature version of hubby and me toddling around, singing complicated songs about Speckled Gloves to herself, rearranging her Buddies on the couch and making sure they all have haircuts.
“Can I have some more o-bar?”
“A what, dear?”
“I want some more o-bar.”
“Do you mean gra-no-la bar?”
“Yah, o-bar. Please.”
They both spoiled me rotten this weekend with cards, a gift certificate to my favourite spa, and back-to-back gourmet meals on the grill (lobster last night, beer can chicken tonight). We went on adventures all over town, ate ice cream, basked in the sun and even slept in. Past 8:30 a.m. Believe it.
While standing in line at the grocery store, I popped a piece of chewing gum in my mouth. The Doodle immediately tried to crawl in to retrieve it.
“I want some! I want it!”
“No, luv, that’s just for grown-ups.”
“I want a grown-up … I like a grown-up ... ,” as though it was a new snack she just had to try. She began rooting through the diaper bag, wondering where I had hidden the grown-ups.
I’m still trying to figure that out myself. I’m a MOM? I’m somebody’s mother? The notion bowls me over when I least expect it. When did I get old enough to join the parents’ council at daycare? Or invest in RESPs? Or be the one driving the babysitter home at the end of the night?
The grown-up in me spends the day compiling lengthy messages to foreign diplomats, then blogging on the nuances of a recently released California pinot noir. Right in the middle of it, I’ll find myself bursting into song. “Shhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee’s aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa real Martian beauty, my Number Nine cutie, she’s got nine hairs on her head …”
That’s what motherhood does to you. Blurs the edges of your various realities like so much PB&J on toast. Makes for great entertainment for your colleagues, but has a tendency to leave you wondering, “how do I DO this?”
Meanwhile, my biggest fan still can’t get enough.
“Again, Mummy. A-gain.”
How could I possibly say no?
The wine: Soft floral aromas lead to rich, buttered toast, smokey campfire and a touch of herbaceous zing on the palate. Medium to full-bodied, low acid, supple and smooth finish. If all Chardonnays could be this good, I'd convert.