Hey, it’s Mother’s Day. And, like any grown son, I am determined to do whatever it takes to let my mom know how much she means to me.
After all, over the last half-century, she has put up with a lot from her first-born — pranks, wisecracks, tantrums on topics ranging from lima beans (but I hate them) to high-top sneakers (pleeeaase) — as she gracefully guided my metamorphosis from cranky baby to cranky man.
But enough talk. Let’s get to it.
Consistently voted one of the top mothers on the planet by an independent panel of people to whom she has given birth, my mom awakens to the intoxicating aroma of the finest Turkish coffee in all of Portsmouth.
The menu for my custom “breakfast in bed” Extreme Mother’s Day amenity features a dizzying array of culinary delicacies, including but not limited to French toast imported from Paris, her beloved lobster mac and cheese, and a mimosa made with hand-squeezed oranges from the finest Hannaford’s in the land.
Maybe even a pound of eels harvested in Hampton. You probably heard these little buggers go for as much as $3,000 a pound in parts of Asia. They sure must be delicious.
Now I know poaching eels is, as they say, eel-legal. But I figure a real son ought to be able to handle a short jail term to treat his mom to the mother of all Mother’s Days. On second thought, scratch the eels. And while we’re at it, let’s say “no” to the escargot.
But the abnormally large fresh raspberries are served with a fondue medley featuring melted brown gold from the state-of-the-art Lindt & Sprungli chocolate factory.
Of course, there will be flowers. But not just the kind that grow in the dirt and smell pretty. Every mom gets those. I’m busting out a bouquet hand-blown by Dale Chihuly, the legendary glass artist whose work she enjoys.
After Leonard Cohen wraps up his personal mini-concert in her living room, I whisk my mom aboard a hired chopper for the quick flight down to New York, where we will enjoy VIP seating at a Broadway play I have written and staged recounting her remarkable life. (Vanity Fair: “Helen Mirren is mesmerizing!”)
From there, we’ll luxuriate in the stretch limo I’ve hired to roll up at her choice of Manhattan hotspots — the Gramercy Tavern, Trump’s Diner or Forkie’s Charcuterie.
Her spa treatment at Ohm is nothing fancy — just a typical full-body avocado immersion bath and hot-gemstone massage with the usual assortment of brick oven-warmed diamonds, emeralds and rubies.
While in New York, we visit United Nations headquarters, where our impassioned plea for world peace — a two-person interpretive drama featuring the elements of modern dance, opera, hiphop and Kung Fu — brought the ambassadors of East Korea and Malawi to tears.
I don’t know if we’ll have time to squeeze in tea (and sweet-buttered marmalade scones) with Hillary Clinton and Maya Angelou, but I hope so.
From there we skip, hand in hand, to my rented Gulfstream luxury jet for a quick jaunt to Africa to fulfill my mother’s lifelong dream of frolicking with the meerkats. (Or was it the dolphins?)
After quick stops at the Pyramids and the Great Wall, we soar up to Kennebunkport where former president George H.W. Bush has promised us a ride on one of his cigarette boats. Swell guy, that Bush.
From there, we submarine it down the coast, up the Piscataqua and back to Portsmouth. (What, you forgot to rent your mom a private, submersible watercraft? Mmm.)
Now my mom is not particularly fond of heights so we err on the side of NOT tandem bungee jumping off the I-95 bridge.
Back home, it is the perfect time to unveil my two-hour documentary about her remarkable life as a wife, mother and children’s store entrepreneur.
Titled simply “Jill,” and narrated of course by Robert Redford and Jon Hamm, it traces her life story from her idyllic childhood in Crafton, Pa., to her epic pilgrimage to York, Maine, and then on to Portsmouth. The piece concludes with never-before-seen footage of her high school graduation — the most emotionally evocative piece of film I have ever seen.
So, as you have probably already surmised, the above itinerary has been slightly exaggerated. (But G. Willikers! It’s her fault really, and my dad’s, for sticking me with somewhat of a wild imagination.)
Though my mom might enjoy a whirlwind, multi-state Mom Day tour de force, I suspect she would rather spend Mother’s Day what she calls the “traditional” way.
That means working at the family business with her daughter, then zipping across town to see her daughter’s daughter (my niece if you do the math) in the internationally acclaimed Portsmouth High School production of “Hansel and Gretel.” (Vanity Fair: “Zoe Sprankle is mesmerizing!”)
Hollywood ending: During the standing ovation — as the entire theater echoes with applause, pride and joy — I hug my mom and tell her that I love her. Happy Mother’s Day.
— John Breneman