Mother's Day Tulips

         His father carried him down this morning. I had been downstairs since dawn with his six-month-old sister. We were cuddled on the sofa getting ready for the first nap of the day. Daddy set him down, and he crawled up next to the baby and me. The four of us sank into the sofa in a big family snuggle. My son was two and a half. His second birthday had been such a delight; he loved his cake and balloons, especially the balloons.

         All of a sudden he hopped back down off the edge of the sofa and toddled over to the low table over by the TV, the feet of his sleeper swishing on the carpet. He stood looking down in dismay at flower petals on the floor.

         A week earlier, he had gone with Daddy and purchased a tulip plant, which he proudly and solemnly presented to me on Mother’s Day. I exclaimed over it and smothered him with kisses, then set it on the table to be admired. Every day he had helped me water it. During the night the flower had faded, and the huge red petals had fallen to the floor.

         My son stood before them, his little shoulders slumped, trying to make sense of it. He turned and looked at me with sad, little, brown eyes. “Mommy, your flower popped.” His bottom lip quivered.

         I nodded. “Yes, it popped.”

         He stood there thinking for a moment, then said, “Could we blow up another one?"

         Oh, how I wish it were that easy. I knelt beside him and hugged him, taking in that little boy smell as he wrapped his arms around me in consolation. After a serious two-year-old cheek-to-cheek consultation, we decided to go buy another one. The sight of tulips every year brings to mind this moment in my life.

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