A jolt of Java

I've claimed my favourite table at my favourite coffee shop early this Sunday morning, rather thrilled to beat what is likely to be a steady stream of mother/child combinations.

There's one of those just ahead of me in the line-up, a young mum with a tiny tow-headed ankle-biter of indiscriminate sex.  She's sat him/her (them?) on the counter while she places her order, and while the barista has turned to plate a pastry and the mum prepares to pay, I spot, with a flash of horror and panic, the TTHAB hoisting the mother's coffee mug, full of fresh hot coffee.

"NO!" I gasp, just restraining myself from lunging.  (There's another customer standing between us.)

Alerted, the young mum calmly takes the mug from her offspring, and places it on the far side of the cash register.  I'm semi-collapsed against the display case.  There will be little need of caffeine this morning after that adrenaline rush.

"Happy Mother's Day," I breathe.

A lullaby for post-modern children

It's Mother's Day, and I'm a mother and a daughter, and it's the end of the steeple chase that led up to Easter, through an obstacle course of birthdays, past a recital to today with its cards and love offerings.

This song wasn't written for the mother/child relationship, but it kinda fits.  Actually, that's one of the first things I noticed when I became a mother.  A lot of love songs work just as well for how you feel about your kids.