Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah

Mother’s Day is not always as predictable as it would appear to be. Sure, it usually involves sleeping late, which for mothers means past eight in the morning, woo hoo. The sleeping in is followed by a breakfast, lovingly cooked to imperfection. The day is then spent on a variety of family togetherness activities, unplanned by me and subjected to constant threats to get along. We typically wrap it up with the obligatory dinner at the in-laws, although we pick something up instead of me cooking. Most Sunday nights, I cook dinner for my in-laws, but even I get a night off from cooking for Mother’s Day. I generally enjoy my day because hey, it’s Mother’s Day, what’s not to like. I get a few homemade cards, some dark chocolate, and maybe a gift card for a massage. I don’t ask for much, and I am pretty easy to please; I just like to be remembered. While an entire day off sounds like a great idea for Mother’s Day, it isn’t necessary. I just don’t want to have to do as much as I normally would, and it would be nice to hear a please and thank you. The absence of arguing is like icing on the cake.

This past Mother’s Day, however, was odd. Really odd. It began with both of my children spending the night somewhere else, a pretty rare occurrence. My children are not known for their ability to sleep, let alone at someone else's house. E was with my friend MJ’s daughter, AJ, and S was at a sleepover party. That left my husband in charge of the sleeping late and breakfast duties. Now, I love my husband, and he has many skills, but cooking is not one of them. That’s all I am going to say about breakfast, except thank you, dear.

I did have the opportunity to enjoy the Sunday paper relaxing on the couch, instead of how I normally read it, by skimming it on Tuesday while making dinner, after driving to art and dance, and then chucking the whole stack in the recycling bin. When my husband went to pick S up from the party, she and her friend convinced him that he should leave her there to go to the movies. He came home childless, and by then it was time to go get E.


We drove to MJ’s home, a cute as hell mountain house tucked in the woods, yet right off the main drag. It has high ceilings and wooden beams and lots of windows, and when you sit on the leather couch, the big dog at your feet, the little dog by your side, you forget for a moment where you are. My husband and I had just missed brunch, but I was still full from that adequate breakfast, thanks again, dear. We, meaning MJ, MJ’s ginormous fetus, MJ’s baby daddy PS, my husband, and I, hung out on the couch while E and her friend AJ ran up and down the stairs and did things that eleven year old girls do, like change their clothes a billion times and say OMG! and squeal and stomp around and forget to close doors followed by slamming them.

Somewhere in the conversation, PS announced that he had a zip line in the back yard and that we needed to go check it out. While E and AJ continued their assault on the door hinges, the four of us, the fetus, and the two dogs slipped out and trudged through the pine straw and leaves of the back yard to where the zip line was located, between two trees on the property and over a little creek. PS, who I should mention is quite physically fit, demonstrated how easy it is to use by swinging himself over the creek, climbing up the makeshift ladder on the taller tree, and then zipping back to our side of land, stopping before he crashed headfirst into the other tree to which the rope was tied. This was by no means a ropes course with crotch harnesses; it was a one cable zip line, with little handles from which you flail.

It’s easy,” he announced. “Here, Amy, you try it.”

Easy is in the eye of the beholder. My eyes don’t see anything as easy, especially not swinging from a zip line above a creek. The first thought I had was that there was no way that thing was going to support me. I rationalized that surely I don’t weigh as much as PS and he did it perfectly safely. Then I thought about how I was going to fall, not to my death, but surely to my maiming, and how I didn’t care to spend my Mother’s Day in the emergency room explaining to some Indian doctor how I sustained that broken arm, and, no, I was not drinking. Then I thought, why all the negative thoughts? It’s just a back yard zip line for Christ’s sake. Just do it.

“Ok, I’ll try,” I said, walking over to where PS stood, near the edge of the shallow stream.

“Here, you just jump across the water and climb up that tree,” he said, standing behind me so I couldn’t chicken out.

I don’t jump across streams. I am old with a bum knee and short legs. Jumping is not one of my approved activities. I peered at the stream, trying to figure out the easiest way to get to the other side of the bank without getting my sneakers wet. I stepped down into a firm patch of mud and squatted a little, deciding where to step next. PS, still behind me, gave me a shove. I fell forward, catching myself before I face planted in the creek, but not before one shoe went under water. I am pretty sure it was a shove of encouragement, but my blood still boiled a little.

“What the hell?” I shrieked.

“You’re taking too long!” PS said. “Come on, you can do it, just jump.”

I stepped up on the bank, into what became a big smear of wet clay, and then slid back into the water. Now both my shoes were wet.

“My shoes are full of leeches,” I said.

“There aren’t any leeches in this creek. It’s freshwater. Come on," PS said again.


“I am pretty sure leeches live in fresh water,” I began to argue, taking the hand PS offered me and pulling myself up. I stomped wet footed over to the tree with the boards nailed to it like a ladder. The top rung was higher than my face.

“Good, now climb up and grab hold of the handles.”

I climbed up as I was told. Climbing is another thing on my list of things I don’t do. Right after jumping. When I got to the top, PS shoved his shoulder under my rump and got me to turn around so I could grab both handles of the trolley.

“Okay, now hold on tight, don’t let go. It’s fun!” PS said. PS would make a great drug dealer or serial killer. His enthusiasm makes you think everything is going to be okay, even if you end up with a broken arm, a wicked addiction to heroin, or ten years trapped in a basement dungeon.

I grabbed both handles, looked across the woods to where my very pregnant friend and my husband stood, laughing, and I stepped off the tree ladder. And guess what? I didn’t fall. I flew.

I whizzed past the trees and over the creek and reached the other bank, where I realized that PS was so busy trying to figure out how to get me started that he forgot to tell me how to stop. I was too scared to grind my heels into the ground, but even more terrified of flying face first into the big tree that was blocking my way. I stuck my feet down, stumbled a little bit, and stopped.

MJ was doubled over with her camera, laughing so hard she was crying. “I got pictures!” she cackled. “This is the best Mother’s Day ever!”

“I don’t know about that,” I retorted.

When she stood up, I noticed a pile of leaves under her were wet with a reddish fluid.

“Oh my God, your water broke!” I screamed.

PS jerked his head around, no longer smiling.

“No, it didn’t,” MJ said, still laughing. “I just spilled the vitamin water.” The big dog ambled over and began licking all the wet leaves.

My husband attempted the zip line next, which was even funnier because he couldn’t get across the creek either. He tried to swing across, holding onto the handles, but then dangled right over the water since he didn’t build enough speed to get across on the cable. I laughed at him. I earned that right.

I do believe I earned that massage. And a nap. Maybe next year we can go BASE jumping or BMX stunt riding or bull semen collecting or something equally out of my comfort zone. Whatever it is, it has to be better than that breakfast. Which reminds me, thank you, dear.