Every Mother's Day our family would go to church (because it was Sunday, not because it was Mother's Day) but on Mother's Day I was excited because sometimes my dad would have a corsage for my mother. It would probably be an orchid. The fun little game I'd play would be judging the competition of corsages. Who had them, what did they look like, color, number of flowers, how big it was resting on the woman's chest, important details. There was one woman who was usually the winner. She was Hawaiian and would have huge, beautiful flowers. I doubted there was an actual competition or that anyone else cared, but in my small childish head I considered it. I was concerned that some women didn't get flowers from their families. Were they sad? Somehow I thought that maybe the flower symbolized the woman herself. I wanted my mom's corsage to be beautiful. Today I caught myself wondering about that. It's been so long since I went to church with my mom on Mother's Day. Corsages seem to be dated in my mind, but I secretly hope there are still some people who find themselves sporting massive corsages, one orchid per child birthed, weighing heavily on a mother's chest, partially blocking her vision, and giving her child something to stare at (or destroy-depending on age).
Mother's Day 1990. I was 11 years old. At the age of 12 a child moves out of primary and begins going to youth Sunday School classes. I was a few months away from this awaited day when I would no longer be one of the children. This tough age of trying hard not to be a little kid, seeing the girls a little bit older then me and wanting desperately to fit in with them left me quite conflicted. That Sunday the primary was scheduled to sing for their mothers in sacrament meeting. I did not want to do it. I think I was so tired of being a kid. I wanted to be older or cooler or something. I told my mom I didn't want to go up to sing. Of course this didn't go over well. I don't remember what took place but I do remember finally going up to the front to face the congregation. I couldn't sing. I also couldn't stop crying. I just stood up there and sobbed, taller then everyone, standing on the back row, I couldn't look at my mother.
I wish I could sing a cheesy song to my mom today. My favorite was:
I often go walking in meadows of clover,
and I gather armfuls of blossoms of blue.
I gather the blossoms the whole meadow over,
Dear Mother, all flowers remind me of you.
Oh Mother, I give you my love with each flower
to give forth sweet fragrance a whole lifetime through;
for if I love blossoms and meadows and walking,
I learn how to love them, dear Mother, from you.
Mom, I'm sorry I didn't sing to you that day.