I can always tell when it’s Mother’s Day. It’s the day where I can’t tell who is who on Facebook, as pictures of mothers fill up the walls of my feed; I can’t walk into the mall without having my eyes desensitized by the aroma of cheap perfumes that radiate from department stores; and where all the children go off and horde Hallmark cards, trying to find the perfect card with the perfect motherhood phrases.

I came back from college on Mother’s Day; broke, without a penny to spend, I wondered what I would do for my own mother. So I went long boarding. I was thinking of a present while curving in and out of streets, kicking and pushing as my mock grandpa glasses gleamed from the radiance of sunshine. In hindsight, it was a bad idea, I couldn’t see 10 feet in front of me with the damn things on… I figured it was a bad idea as I approached the biggest hill in the neighborhood. As, I went down the 80 degree drop, I placed all my weight in the front of the board, leaned forward, and spread my hands out behind me as if I just crossed the finish line; everything was perfect.

Than I hit a pot hole, it launched me 8 feet into the air and I was flying through illegal airspace for 5 seconds as my knees unfolded: acting like my landing gear. As I rolled and flipped over the grey craggy pavement, I was thinking: “My mother will not like this. Nope, not one bit…” My pants ripped, my watch broke off, my hands demolished, and my forearms lacerated. The neighbors stood idle with their lawn mowers, I heard one rush towards me and say: “DON’T MOVE! Is your hip alright sir?” And with a theoretical broken hip, I went back home limping as the skin of my knee was hanging off.

I was prepping my first aid as my mother freaked out and asked what had happened. I told her I tripped, she nodded in disbelief then began to take over and patch up her son. I was standing in the bathroom, holding my pant leg as my mother was getting alcohol, a cotton eyepatch (had no bandages, ha), and some Neosporin.

In the midst of her son growing up and venturing out into the world, she had this moment, to return to become the nurturing mother she will never forget. It was like traveling back in time, from a 20-year-old to a 7-year-old; and even though it was somewhat humiliating, I looked at my mother as she looked up smiling. I disregarded the humility, and found the solace between the Neosporin spreading and the application of the eyepatch. It was a spiritual moment, between a mother and son. That was my mother’s day present; a lost childhood innocence and motherly tending; a connection with my mother.