This Mother's Day sucked for me. Lots of memories, lots of sadness, lots of that feeling of being alone... While my family put the dock in at The Lake Place and slurped cold drinks in the 80 degree Minnesota sun, I was stuck in my 350-square foot Studio Apartment, trying to educate myself on the enlightening topics of crude oil and OfficeMax Inc.

Fiancee (TM) and her family chatted over brunch on the outdoor patio overlooking a nature preserve in Iowa, and celebrated the birthday of my soon-to-be niece, who just turned the ripe-old age of three.

I was nowhere to be found; stuck on this urban heat island inside a shade-drenched apartment working on school work.

What a bummer.

I wish I could have shared the day with my mother, my stepmother, and my soon-to-be mother-in-law.

Happy Mother's Day to all. I hope you all remembered to call home... and never take your mother(s) for granted.

Here's a wonderful little piece from this morning's Star Tribune, that got me waxing nostalgic and longing for days gone by.


Call me anything, but call it love
Gail Rosenblum, Star Tribune
May 8, 2005

He's already outside the coffee shop, walking my way on the sidewalk.

"Hey, Mom," he says, nonchalantly. "What are you doing around here?"

I figure I don't need to remind him that I live around here, in the same house, in fact, where he is growing up.

Instead, I joke that it's his lucky day. He needed a few extra bucks for an iced chai, so he called me on my cell and sounded surprised that I was in my car, just minutes away.

"I'll bring the money inside," I tell him, "so I can say hi to your friends." It works like magic. He flies out the coffee shop door, alone, thanks me for the cash and mumbles something about seeing me later.

"How about a kiss?" I ask as he turns. I hadn't noticed, but now his friends are outside, too. Watching.

He offers me the top of his head, a reasonable compromise under the circumstances. Then, a "Bye, Mom," and he bolts.

He's 13, with far better things to do than try to please his mother. But I stand for a minute watching him, taking him in.

A child hints in big and little ways that he is doing the good work of growing up. Spending his allowance on iced chais is one example. Size 8½ black Tim Duncan basketball shoes are another. But I wonder how I missed the biggest clue of all. Watching him cross the street and walk away in the lanky dance of teenage boys, it occurred to me that he will probably never call me "Mommy" again.

It's just a word, really.

"You aren't going to call me Phyllis, are you?" my almost-mother-in-law asked me in her kitchen a week before my wedding. Actually, that had been my plan. She sensed my embarrassment and leaped in with a gracious save:

"Well ... there are a lot worse things you could call me." We laughed. Over the years, I have grown to adore and appreciate her like a second mother. But I have never been able to shift from our compromise, "Mama," the term of endearment used by her grandchildren.

Just a word, really.

He came into the world wrapped in his umbilical cord, the first unsuccessful attempt to slow him down. He walked at 9 months and rode a bike at 3, spinning around Lake Harriet on two tiny wheels like a miniature circus bear.

About that time, I discovered a book by Canadian storyteller Robert Munsch called "Love You Forever." In it, an adoring mother crawls on her belly toward her newborn son's crib every night, pulling him into her arms to rock him back and forth, back and forth. She continues this nightly ritual as he grows up -- first a toddler, then a teen then, even, a grown man -- cradling his huge body while he sleeps in her lap. I know. Therapists would have a field day.

But I still cry every time I read it. Besides, what else could the mother do? He probably started by walking to coffee shops after school! And taking the phone upstairs when it rang! And listening to the Red Hot Chili Peppers!

I also have two daughters. I was wrong when I thought way before children that it would be girls who would mystify me. Growing up sandwiched between two brothers, with whom I shared a large bedroom until I was about 10, I didn't think there was anything baffling about boys. Smelly, yes. Baffling? No.

But my girls cry about busted-up friendships, then reunite 10 minutes later. They laugh loudly, talk fast and love dollar bins. And they let me know when I annoy them.

They are me, with smaller hips.

My son is no such animal. He programs my cell phone to read "Moms are cool," then disappears for hours downloading music or shooting hoops with his dad, or playing 12-bar blues on the piano. He forgets to eat (definitely not his mother's legacy). We talk in short spurts: "Stuffing means blocking, Mom."I'll be home at 6." I can't help him with his math anymore, and he sure as H. E. double hockey sticks doesn't want me asking him about girls.

But once in a while, I'll catch him watching me, taking me in. Then he'll grin and turn to other things.

Mom. Mommy. Just words, really. Hardly different at all.

No more different than a stroller and a 10-speed.

A first-grade crush and instant messages way past midnight.

Running into my arms after a playground spill and running directly from the court to the fridge for ice.

"I'm fine, Mom," he tells me, blood caking on his knees.

He's right. He really is.

And I'll love him forever, whatever he calls me.

Gail Rosenblum is at grosenblum@startribune.com.