Remembering My Own Mother’s Day History

I’m so glad I reread my Mother’s Day post from last year. Truth be told, I was seeing if I could post it again, because I’ve got three blog posts in process and none are ready for prime time. I thought I could take the easy way out and repost, but I reread last year’s post, and realized I can’t use it because I have actually have evolved from that post. Oh, sure, that’s great for my development, but it leaves me diddly squat as far as an easy post. You just can’t win sometimes.

But rereading the post at least helped me avoid a bad Mother’s Day idea. I remembered we went for ice cream on the beach last year, and that it was fun, so I thought we could do it again. Being 50 has its benefits, but memory is not one of them. My blog reported that we spent about 40 minutes crawling in beach traffic at 5 miles an hour and 15 minutes waiting in line for and then scarfing down ice cream. Ah, right. On to the next idea.

Last year, I decided to start doing all that touristy stuff I did with my friends and family when I first got to Boston, and then forgot about. My son and I had started the Boston Freedom Trail last fall, so I wanted to try another leg of it. Granted, last year’s trip with my son was a little dicey — silly me, I tried to drag a sleepy teen to Boston to get my haircut and do the Freedom Trail on the same day. Let’s just say we made it three stops into the trail. But according to my memory, it was wicked fun.

I was a little worried this year because those oh, so confident, yet inaccurate weather people said it was going to downpour in the middle of the day. But the rain held off, and we got in three more sites — the Old State House, Paul Revere’s House, and the Old North Church. The crowds were minimal and we caught the blue hair special dinner at 5 pm at Kinsale in Government Center (Remember the blue hairs? Where did they go? I miss them and want to be a blue hair when I’m 70). There was no 40 minute wait for Mother’s Day brunch for us, thank god. So you know, all’s well that ends well, and I have another record of what I did. Aren’t you lucky?


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