A harried-looking mother of three I recognized from school sat down next to me on the pool deck. She explained that things were a bit crazy this morning because each of her kids had a different start time for their swimming lessons, which meant she was stuck at the pool for over two hours, but at least she thought to bring her laptop on the off chance she could get some work done.

Naturally, as soon as the 10-year-old’s lesson began, Mom noticed he was the only one in his class without goggles. So she rounded up her 14- and 7-year-olds, loaded them back into the van and high-tailed it home to retrieve the missing goggles. She made it back 15 minutes before the end of the lesson, which is when she saw me.

She paused in her retelling of this story to look more closely at her 14-year-old son.

MOM: Those aren’t swim shorts.
SON: (looking down) Aren’t they?
MOM: No, they are not.
SON: (shrugging) Does it matter?
MOM: (rolling her eyes) Whatever. But those are going to fade.
SON: They’re already faded.
MOM: No, I mean the black part is going to fade.
SON: (sounding irritated) They’re already faded!
MOM: (turning away) Don’t talk to me.

At that exact moment, something sailed through the air and landed with a clunk at her feet. The 10-year-old had decided he didn’t want his goggles.

It’s nice to know it’s not just us.

A church billboard I passed the other day reminded me to “collect moments, not things” when it comes to Mother’s Day. That’s sage advice, considering most of the “things” I’ve been given over the years have been teacher-mandated art projects for which I had to send money/supplies. So here are some mommy moments I’ve collected over the last little while:

At the fourth grade science fair, parents were invited to come and look at all the projects set up in the gym. I zeroed in on Justin, so proud to see him standing next to his (more like our) work…and he told me to move along. “Don’t stand here, Mom!” So heartwarming.

While I was cleaning the outside of our big second-floor bay window, clinging spider-like to the window frame to keep from plummeting to the ground, Justin leaned out the open window and complained, “Mom, it’s chilly.” He went to close the window and leave me stranded outside…until he saw the murderous look on my face, at which point he decided to just move to a different room. Score one for non-verbal communication.

At the Mother’s Day tea in Brayden’s class, the teacher read out introductions the kids had written about their mothers. Most kids said stuff like “my mom watches TV” and “my mom likes shopping”…and my son noted “my mom is a slow drinker.” (At least I wasn’t the poor woman who was told she was “a good bed lady.”)

So this Mother’s Day, I plan to bask in the obvious love my children have for me. Plus enjoy a good stiff drink.

Maybe I should get started now…

Isn’t there supposed to be a stage when kids believe their parents are all-knowing, all-powerful beings? I’m not sure my offspring have ever regarded me with a sense of hero worship. And if they did, the bloom came off that rose many, many moons ago.

Justin rolls his eyes when he sees how I can’t complete math equations as fast as he can, or when I have to admit I can’t count to 20 in Spanish, or when I have absolutely no idea who was voted the most valuable player of the 1974 Stanley Cup playoffs.

Brayden used to ask questions I could answer, but that changed around the time he learned to read. We went from “Why is it so dark in the winter?” to “Where did ancient Egypt get its sand?”and “Why did Canada have to defend Hong Kong?”

Here’s a sample of the kind of conversations we have these days:

BRAYDEN: When did Canada become an independent country?

ME (confidently): In 1867.

BRAYDEN: But that was Confederation. Then we were part of the British Empire, right?

ME (less confidently): Well, yes.

BRAYDEN: So when did we become truly independent? And what’s the deal with the Commonwealth?

ME (edging out of the room): Um…

(The sad part is that I actually minored in Canadian history at university. You’d think I’d be able to answer an eight-year-old’s questions without resorting to Google. But no.)

At this point, Brayden’s keyboarding skills are not so great, so he still needs me to actually look up all this stuff on the Internet. But I know the time is coming when my middleman role will no longer be necessary.

Which I guess is as it should be.

I want to quit ukulele lessons.

The thing is, I never actually signed up for ukulele lessons. My seven-year-old, who according to his teachers at school shows great musical promise, had been begging to learn an instrument. So Santa brought him a ukulele, and I signed him up for a class on how to play it.

It quickly became clear, however, that this was not going to be the drop-the-kid-off-and-run kind of class I was hoping for. The other kids in the class are a bit older and a lot more musically experienced than Brayden, so the lessons move at a fairly quick pace, and my boy really struggles to keep up. What this means, of course, is that I have to sit beside him and translate everything that’s going on.

So I’m learning to play the ukulele. He’s learning to ignore the instructor and look to me to tell him what he needs to know.

Except he doesn’t particularly enjoy listening to me either. In class, I’ll remind him that he needs to listen, and he’ll indignantly insist that he is listening…meanwhile, he’s swinging his ukulele like a canoe paddle while the rest of the class is playing Ode to Joy. Argh.

It’s even less fun trying to get him to practise at home. He’ll play the two chords he knows about three times each and call the practice session over (total elapsed time: 65 seconds). Then we show up at class for another hour of humiliation because he hasn’t learned any of the songs the rest of the class is playing. Good times.

Tonight is the final lesson. I’m desperately trying to come up with a reason why we can’t go that lets me escape without teaching my child that it’s OK to be a quitter.

Anyone?