My Mother's Gift

I grew up in a small town where the elementary school was a ten-minute walk from my house and in an age , not so long ago , when children could go home for lunch and find their mothers waiting.
At the time, I did not consider this a luxury, although today it certainly would be. I took it for granted that mothers were the sandwich-makers, the finger-painting appreciators and the homework monitors. I never questioned that this ambitious, intelligent woman, who had had a career before I was born and would eventually return to a career, would spend almost every lunch hour throughout my elementary school years just with me.
I only knew that when the noon bell rang, I would race breathlessly home. My mother would be standing at the top of the stairs, smiling down at me with a look that suggested I was the only important thing she had on her mind. For this, I am forever grateful.
Some sounds bring it all back: the highpitched squeal of my mother's teakettle, the rumble of the washing machine in the basement and the jangle of my dog's license tags as she bounded down the stairs to greet me. Our time together seemed devoid of the gerrymandered schedules that now pervade my life.
One lunchtime when I was in the third grade will stay with me always. I had been picked to be the princess in the school play, and for weeks my mother had painstakingly rehearsed my lines with me. But no matter how easily I delivered them at home, as soon as I stepped onstage, every word disappeared from my head.
Finally, my teacher took me aside. She explained that she had written a narrator's part to the play, and asked me to switch roles. Her word, kindly delivered, still stung, especially when I saw my part go to another girl.
I didn't tell my mother what had happened when I went home for lunch that day. But she sensed my unease, and instead of suggesting we practice my lines, she asked If I wanted to walk in the yard.
It was a lovely spring day and the rose vine on the trellis was turning green. Under the huge elm trees, we could see yellow dandelions popping through the grass in bunches, as if a painter had touched our landscape with dabs of gold .I watched my mother casually bend down by one of the clumps. "I think I'm going to dig up all these weeds, "she said, yanking a blossom up by its roots. "From now on, we'll have only roses in this garden. "
"But I like dandelions, " I protested. "All flowers are beautiful-even dandelions. "My mother looked at me seriously. "Yes, every flower gives pleasure in its own way, doesn't it?" She asked thoughtfully. I nodded, pleased that I had won her over. "And that is true of people too, " she added. "Not everyone can be a princess, but there is no shame in that.
Relieved that she had guessed my pain, I started to cry as I told her what had happened. She listened and smiled reassuringly.
"But you will be a beautiful narrator, " she said , reminding me of how much I loved to read stories aloud to her . "The narrator's part is every bit as important as the part of a princess. "
Over the next few weeks, with her constant encouragement, I learned to take pride in the role. Lunchtimes were spent reading over my lines and talking abut what I would wear.
Backstage the night of the performance, I felt nervous. A few minutes before the play, my teacher came over to me. "Your mother asked me to give this to you, " she said, handing me a dandelion. Its edges were already beginning to curl and it flopped lazily from its stem. But just looking at it, knowing my mother was out there and thinking of our lunchtime talk, made me proud .
After the play , I took home the flower I had stuffed in the apron of my costume . My mother pressed it between two sheets of paper toweling in a dictionary , laughing as she did it that we were perhaps the only people who would press such a sorry-looking weed .
I often look back on our lunchtimes together , bathed in the soft midday light . They were the commas in my childhood , the pauses that told me life is not savored in premeasured increment , but in the sum of daily rituals and small pleasures we casually share with loved ones . Over peanut-butter sandwiches and chocolate-chip cookies , I learned that love , first and foremost , means being there for the little things .
A few months ago , my mother came to visit , I took off a day from work and treated her to lunch. The restaurant bustled with noontime activity as businesspeople made deals and glanced at their watches . In the middle of all this sat my mother , now retired , and I . From her face I could see that she relished the pace of the work world .
"Mom , you must have been terribly bored staying at home when I was a child , " I said .
"Bored? Housework is boring . But you were never boring . "
I didn't believe her , so I pressed . "Surely children are not as stimulating as a career. "
"A career is stimulating , " she said . "I'm glad I had one . But a career is like an open balloon. It remains inflated only as long as you keep pumping . A child is a seed . You water it . You care for it the best you can . And then it grows all by itself into a beautiful flower . "
Just then , looking at her , I could picture us sitting at her kitchen table once again , and I understood why I kept that flaky brown dandelion in our old family dictionary pressed between two crumpled bits of paper towel.

母親的禮物

我是在一個小鎮(zhèn)上長大的，從鎮(zhèn)上的小學校到我家， 只需步行10分鐘。離當前不算太太久遠的那個時代 ， 小學生可以回家吃午飯，而他們的母親，則會老早在家等候著。
這一切對如今的孩子來說，無疑是一種奢望了，可是那時的我，卻并不以為然。 我覺得做母親的給她的孩子制作三明治，鑒賞指畫，檢查他們的家庭作業(yè)，都是理所當然的事。我從來沒有想過：像我母親這樣一個頗有抱負又很聰明的女人，在我降生之前，她有一份工作，而且后來她又謀了份差事，可是，在我上小學那幾年，她卻幾乎天天陪著我吃午飯，一同打發(fā)午餐時的每一分鐘。
只記得，每當午時鈴聲一響，我就一口氣地往家里跑。母親總是站在門前臺階的最高層，笑盈盈地望著我--那神情分明表示：我便是母親心目中唯一最重要的東西了。為此，我一輩子都要感謝我的母親。
如今，每當我聽到一些聲音，像母親那把茶壺水開時發(fā)出的尖叫聲，地下室洗衣機的隆隆聲，還有， 我那條狗蹦下臺階沖我搖頭擺尾時它脖子上那牌照發(fā)出的撞擊聲，便會勾起我對往事的回憶。和母親在一起的歲月，全然沒有充斥于我的生活中的、事先排定的虛情假意的日程表。我永遠忘不了在我上三年級時的那一頓午飯。在那天之前，我被學校選中，要在一個即將演出的小劇中扮演公主的角色。一連好幾個禮拜，母親總是不辭辛勞地陪著我，一起背誦臺詞?？墒牵还茉诩依镌趺幢车脻L瓜爛熟，只要一上舞臺，我的腦子里就成了一片空白。終于，老師把我叫到了一邊。她說劇中旁白這個角色的臺詞已寫好了，想把我替換下來當旁白。盡管老師這些話說得和和氣氣，可還是刺痛了我的心，特別是當我發(fā)覺自己扮演的公主角色讓另外一個女孩頂替時，更是如此。那天回家吃午飯時我沒有把這事告訴母親。然而，母親見我心神不定，因此沒有再提練習背臺詞的事兒，而是問我愿意不愿意到院子里散散步。那真是一個可愛的春日，棚架上薔薇的藤蔓正在轉青。在一些高大的榆樹下面，我們可以看到，一叢叢黃色的蒲公英冒出草坪，仿佛是一位畫家為了給眼前的美景增色而著意加上的點點金色。我看到母親在一簇花叢旁漫不經心地彎下身來。"我看得把這些野草都撥了，"她說著，一邊使勁把一叢蒲公英連根撥出。"往后咱這園子里只讓長薔薇花。""可是我喜歡蒲公英，"我不滿地說，"凡是花都好看--蒲公英也不例外。"
母親嚴肅地看著我。"噢，這么說，每朵花都自有它令人賞心悅目的地方嘍？"她若有所思地問道。我點了點頭，總算說服了母親，這使我很得意。"可是人也一樣呀，"母親接著又發(fā)話，"不見得人人都能當公主，但當不了公主并不丟臉。"母親猜到了我的苦惱，這使我的情緒安定下來。我哭了起來，把事情的經過講給母親聽。母親專注地聽著，臉上帶著安詳?shù)奈⑿Α?但你會成為一名頂呱呱的解說員，"母親又說。她說平常我是多么喜歡朗誦故事給她聽，還說"從哪方面看，旁白這個角色都和公主那個角色一樣重要"。往后的幾個星期，在母親的一再鼓勵下，我漸漸地以擔任旁白的角色感到驕傲。利用午飯時間，我們又一起念臺詞，議論到時候我該穿什么樣的演出服裝。
到了演出那個晚上，當我登上后臺，心里還感到緊張。離演出還有幾分鐘的時候，老師朝我走了過來。"你母親讓我把這個交給你，"說著她遞過來了一朵蒲公英。那花兒四周已開始打蔫，花瓣兒從梗上向下有氣無力地耷拉著?？墒?，只要看一眼，知道母親就在外面呆著，回想起和母親用午飯時說的那些話，我就感到胸有成竹。演出結束后，我把塞在演出服圍裙里的那朵蒲公英拿回了家。母親將花接了過去，用兩張紙巾將它壓平，夾在了一本字典里。她一邊忙碌著，一邊笑，想到也許只有我們倆會珍藏這么一朵打了蔫的野草花。我常?；叵肫鸷湍赣H在一起度過的那些沐浴在和煦陽光之中的午餐時光。它們是我孩提時代的一個個小插曲，告訴我一個道理：人生的滋味，就在于和我們所愛的人在一起不經意地共度的日常生活、分享的點點滴滴的歡樂，而不在于某種事先測量好的"添加劑"。在享用母親做的花生醬、三明治和巧克力碎末小甜餅的時候，我懂得了，愛就體現(xiàn)在這些細微這處。
幾個月前，母親又來看我。我特意請了天假，陪母親吃午飯。中午，飯館里熙熙壤攘，做生意的人忙不迭地從事交易活動，他們不時地看看手表。如今已經退休的母親和我就坐在這群人中間。從母親的表情中，我看得出，母親打心眼里喜歡上班族這種生活的節(jié)奏。"媽，我小的時候，您老呆在家里一定覺得很煩吧？"我說。"煩？做家務是令人心煩，不過，你從來沒使我感到心煩過。"我不相信這是實話，于是我又想法子套她的話。"看孩子哪會像工作那樣富有刺激性呢？""工作是富有刺激性的，"母親答道，"很高興我也有過工作?？墒枪ぷ骱帽乳_了口的氣球，你只有不停地充氣，它才能鼓著勁?？墒且粋€孩子就是一粒種子，你澆灌了它，全心全意地愛護它，然后，它就會獨立自主地開出美麗的花朵來。"此時此刻，我凝望著我的母親，腦海里又浮現(xiàn)出兒時的我和母親一起坐在飯桌旁的情景，也明白了為什么我還珍藏著夾在我們家里那本舊字典中的那朵用兩小塊皺皺巴巴的紙巾壓平的蒲公英