I have a friend that I don’t talk about very often because we have the oddest relationship ever, I call him Uncle Jerry because he is 20 years older than me and on some level I know that if we weren’t “family” our relationship probably wouldn’t make much sense. Jerry tends bar at the sports bar that I have frequented off and on, since I was old enough to drink – it’s a hole in the wall, but they have pool tables and dart boards and it’s not a “meet market.” I like him because he is a practitioner of, what I call, the Southern Art of Story Telling. You can take Jerry down the road so he can pick up a newspaper and when you get back he tells this epic story that makes it sound like a quest worthy of a fairy tale. Our relationship is strange, but he’s family, well kinda.

I had told Uncle Jerry about my pregnancy fairly early on. He knew that Rob and I had broken up and knew I had moved down the street, but since I didn’t plan on spending any time at the bar over the course of my pregnancy I thought I would let him know why. He never liked Rob and was quick to offer me his love and support, another reason why I consider him family I suppose.

Of course to that point his love and support extended to infrequent phone calls to see how I was doing but other than that I didn’t see very much of him, so I was surprised when he called me on Mother’s Day Sunday to ask for a favor. (My parents were in New York City, they go for two weeks every May and we celebrate Mother’s Day when they get back.)

“I forgot my lunch, could you go grab me a sandwich before the bar opens?” He said.

“Sure, from where?”

We sorted out the arrangements and I confess, despite him offering me free lunch from my favorite sandwich shop, I wasn’t jazzed to go to the bar, even if it wasn’t open. (I’m not very big on the lingering smell of cigarette smoke.) Oh, the things we do for love.

A moment after I arrived in the bar, I was again reminded why I considered Jerry to be family. On one of the side tables there was a beautiful little flower arrangement and something that resembled strawberry shortcake. (Jerry later told me he bought and ripped up an angel food cake and then topped it with strawberries and whipped cream himself.)

“Happy Mother’s Day,” he said as he extended his arms wide to give me a hug and I promptly burst into tears.

Jerry patted my back clumsily while telling me how happy he was to celebrate my “first Mother’s Day” with me, and it’s funny that despite the pregnant belly, and the knowledge I was carrying a bouncing baby boy I just didn’t really see that “Mother’s Day” applied to me. I guess that seems odd, but I didn’t really think Motherhood happened (or more accurately was acknowledged by other people) until the baby was in your arms.

He told me stories all through our little Mother’s Day luncheon, mostly stories about regulars I knew but hadn’t seen in a while, but he sprinkled in some of my favorites for good measure. I laughed so hard that at one point I was holding my sides.

“You aren’t going into labor, are you?” he asked with genuine alarm.

“No,”I assured him, wiping away tears of laughter.

I left just as the bar opened and the first few patrons made their way in.

The next day, when I went to work, I had an emailing wishing me Happy Mother’s Day from Beth (and John too, she assured me!) and she asked if I had a nice Mother’s Day and I smiled, thinking of a dark bar and an old bachelor’s strawberry shortcake when I replied to her by saying “I really did!”

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