Two years ago my son’s grade one class held a surprise mother’s day event in their classroom. I made an effort to look less like a gym junkie/hobo and styled my hair and even threw on a little makeup – eyeshadow and everything!
The crowd of mums assembled outside and awaited our surprise. Was it going to be cake and cream? A smooshy card , providing generous stroking of our mother-egos? Perhaps a concert? A little box of chocolates? No…it was a…Mother’s Day Spa. Shiiiiiit!
My son, Rylan, was bouncing with excitement as he greeted me at the door and ushered me inside. The room was set up with different pampering stations – there was one for massage, one for hair styling, one for manicures, one for refreshments and one….for…make up. Arrrrrrgh!
“Where do you want to go first, mum?” Rylan asked me. “How about the manicure station?”
His sweet little face was lit up like a birthday cake for an octogenerian, his deep brown eyes twinkling with pride.
“Ummmmm,” god no, not the manicure station – definitely not the make up area either. “How about a massage? I love a long, long massage and you are so good at it,” I said.
So we made our way to the massage chairs – tiny plastic chairs that are only meant to hold the weight of a six year old, not a grown woman recovering from another pregnancy. I prayed that the legs wouldn’t break, or flop out to the side like a peeled banana. How embarrassing would that be?
Like a typically over excited six year old, Rylan gave me a three second massage and then asked me where I’d like to go next.
I grabbed his hands and placed them, firmly, back on my shoulders.
“That is so good, Ryles. Why don’t you keep going for a bit longer?” I said. How long was it until hometime? Thirty minutes? Shit!
He shrugged his shoulders and took it as a compliment. Thankfully he couldn’t see through my ruse – my desperate attempt to avoid the make up station at all costs.
Most of the other mums were also avoiding the make up station, but some had been corralled into the mani/pedi area and were now being painted by little hands that had trouble colouring in with pencils, let alone painting fingernails with nail varnish.
It wasn’t a pretty sight.
“Mum,” Rylan said. “Come on, there’s no one at the makeup. Let’s go there.”
“How about a drink first? Is that lemonade over there?”
“Oh yeah! I’ll get you some.”
He raced off and came back with a half drunk cup of lemonade. He isn’t allowed lemonade at home, so the temptation must have been too much.
“Is the tide out?” I asked, laughing.
He smirked and blushed.
“Tell you what, why don’t you have the rest? Mummy’s got some water.” He beamed at me as though I was the bestest mother ever.
Then he ran over and got a brush and started to stroke my hair. All I could think of was that if anyone had nits, there was going to be a breakout of epidemic proportions in the coming week.
“How about a manicure?” he asked hopefully.
My heart rate was increasing. In fact, it was knocking against my rib cage in an attempt to flee the situation without the rest of me.
“That would be lovely, thanks Rylan.”
The station was set up with half a dozen different nail varnishes – none of which were clear.
“What colour mum?”
“Ummmm, how about that really, really pale pink one?” I said, pointing to the most innocuous of all.
He sat down opposite me and drew the brush out of the bottle, a huge drip bulging off the end, and then splatted it down against my nail. The varnish pooled and ran over my finger as he smeared it around.
I looked at the woman next to me and smiled. Her son had painted her fingernail, finger and each phalange up to her wrist. In bright red.
Her eyeballs bulged out of her head as she stifled a giggle.
Another mum staggered by, having survived the make up station. She had one bright blue shadowed eye, and one bright green. Her blush was akin to two strips of fairy floss that had been placed across her cheeks – from the corner of her lips the end of her eyebrow.
I tried, really hard, not to laugh.
“I have to take him to soccer after this and my daughter to dance class,” she said. “I’m going to look like this until six pm when we get home.”
Soon there were three or four mums leaving the make up station in a daze. Each one looked worse than the last. I think Mrs Ronald McDonald was amongst them – her daughter’s little hands had no hope of drawing her bright red lipstick within her lip line.
Thankfully, after painting each fingernail (to the knuckle) pale pink, Rylan was tired of pampering me and I managed to avoid the make up station all together. I went to chat with one of the other mums instead.
“Awwww,” she said. “Did he get you over to the make up station, you poor thing.”
It wasn’t a question she was asking. In her mind, apparently, I had been attacked by inexperienced hands and was in need of sympathy and compassion because my face looked so hideous that she was about to offer me a shoulder to cry on.
“Ahhh, no. He didn’t . This is my own attempt, I did this to myself before I came here,” I said.
Her eyes were the size of hubcaps as she clapped her hand to her mouth, “Ohhhhhh, no! You look great! Really! I was going to ask to be made up like you.
I couldn’t help but laugh. What a doozy! It’s like asking a woman when she’s due – only to find out that she’s not pregnant. Luckily we both had a laugh about it, although I mainly stick to mascara and sheer lipgloss now!