I was editing a list of Mother’s Day restaurant specials the other day. It was the usual collection of brunch buffets, margarita specials and promises of one free flower (A FREE FLOWER, GUYS! A FREE FLOWER!!) for Mom with purchase of entree.
But one stuck out.
This particular restaurant required “proof of motherhood” to get in on one specific Mother’s Day offering.
Proof of motherhood? How is that supposed to work?
Like, are we talking DNA tests?
Receipts for a closet full of mom jeans?
A notarized Mother’s Day card?
A 12- by 14-inch print of my child crowning, with arrows pointing to identifying unique features and signed by my obstetrician and a CSI technician?
Honestly, if I’d allowed cameras within 20 feet of my delivery room, I would consider showing up with that last one and demanding every restaurant employee and diner at neighboring tables carefully inspect it to verify that I was, in fact, qualified for their Really Cool Mother’s Day Special.
Sadly, I have no such “proof of motherhood.”
But I do still sometimes find plastic dinosaurs in purses I haven’t used in a while.
And I’ll startle when I hear a kid shout “Mom!” in a store.
I also have “the look.” At least that’s what my kids tell me.
Clearly, that wasn’t going to work. So I asked my Facebook friends how you could prove you’re a mom. Their answers:
“Show your stretch marks.” … “Or your C-section scar.”
“Have a little trampoline at the door. If you jump and you leak a little, your passport to Flavor Town is stamped.”
“Check the back seat for crumbs.”
All excellent answers.
But here’s the thing about moms: We’re not all alike.
Some of us gave birth. Some adopted, fostered or became stepparents. And others stepped into unofficial mom-type relationships.
Some stay home. Some work for pay.
Some are great cooks. Others are known for their famous call to Domino’s.
Some of us have kids at home. Others are empty-nesters. Others still gave their child up for adoption or buried their child.
There is no test for mom-ness. No identification card. No common denominator other than the fact that we ARE moms.
Being a mom is about the heart. Yours and the heart of the child who loves you.
And that should be enough.
I’ll have to pass on that restaurant special. But if you want to go with a picture of your crowning child, send me a note. I’ll let you know where to go on Mother’s Day. And show up with my camera.
Like All the Moms?