我会永远记得我上三年级时的一顿午饭。在此之前，我已被学校选中，即将在一个演出的小剧中扮演公主的角色。一连几周，母亲总是不辞辛劳地陪我一起排练。但是，无论在家里背得怎样滚瓜烂熟，只要一上舞台，我的脑子里一个字都想不起来。
最终，老师把我叫到了一边，跟我解释已经写好了剧中旁白这个角色的台词，她想替换我当旁白。她的话，尽管很和善，但还是刺痛了我的心，尤其是我看到另外一个女孩顶替我的角色的时候。
那天中午回家吃饭时，我没有告诉母亲这件事。可是，母亲察觉我心神不定，所以她没有再提练习背台词的事，而是问我是否愿意到院子里散散步。
那是春季里风和日丽的一天，棚上的玫瑰藤渐渐转绿。在一些高大的榆树下面，我们可以看到，一丛丛黄色的蒲公英从草坪冒出来，好像是为了给眼前的美景增色，一个画家故意加上的点点金色。我看到母亲漫不经心地在一簇花丛旁弯下身来。“我想把这些野草都拔了，”她边说边使劲拔一丛蒲公英。
“从现在开始，咱们这园子里只让长蔷薇花。”
“不过，我喜欢蒲公英，”我抗议说，“所有的花都漂亮，即使是蒲公英也不例外。”母亲严肃地看着我说：“是的，每朵花都以自己的方式给人赏心悦目，不是吗？”她若有所思地问。我点了点头，很高兴说服了母亲。“可是人也一样呀，”母亲继续说，“不一定人人都能当公主，可是做不了公主并不丢脸。”
母亲猜到了我的痛苦，我哭了起来，然后告诉她事情的经过。母亲听着，脸上带着安慰的微笑。
“但你会成为一名出色的旁白员的，”母亲说。她提醒说，我那么喜欢给她朗读故事。“旁白跟公主的角色一样重要。”
在接下来的几周，在她的多次鼓励下，我学会了以自己扮演的角色而自豪。午餐时间，我们都在念台词，讨论我该穿什么衣服。
演出的那天晚上，我在后台感到紧张。演出前的几分钟，老师向我走了过来。“你妈妈让我把这个给你，”她说，然后递给我一朵蒲公英。它的周围已经开始卷曲，花瓣蔫蔫地耷拉着。然而，只是看着它，我知道母亲就在外面等着，想到我们午餐时说的话，我就感到信心满怀。
演出结束后，我把塞在戏服围裙里的蒲公英带回家。我母亲接过来，用两张纸毛巾压平，夹在一本字典里。她边忙碌边笑，说我们可能是唯一珍藏这朵野草的人。
我经常回忆起我们一起沐浴在正午阳光下的午餐时光。它是我孩提时代的一个小插曲，告诉我，人生的意义不在于预定测量好的“添加剂”，而在于日常生活里我们和所爱的人分享点滴的快乐。在享用花生酱、黄油三明治和巧克力片饼干时，我明白了，爱，就体现在这些细微的事情里。
几个月前，我的母亲来看我，我请了一天的假，和她一起吃午餐。午饭期间，餐厅里熙熙攘攘，商人忙着做生意，不时地看看手表。现在已退休的母亲就坐在这里。从她的脸上我能看出，她对工作世界的节奏很喜欢。
“妈妈，当我还是一个孩子的时候，你在家里一定很无聊吧。”我说。
“无聊？做家务是无聊的，可你从未让我无聊过。”
我不相信她说的，因此我想逼她说出来。“照顾孩子们怎么能像工作那样有刺激呢？”
“工作是有刺激，”她说，“我很高兴我也有过工作。然而，工作就像一个开了口的气球，你得不断地充气，它才能鼓着劲。可是孩子是一粒种子，你得浇灌它，尽你所能照顾它，直到它自己开出美丽的花来。”
此时此刻，我看着她，我又想起我们一起坐在厨房餐桌前的情景。我也明白了为什么我一直珍藏着那片夹在旧字典里的两块纸巾压平的棕色蒲公英。
My Mothers Gift
I grew up in a small town where theelementary school was a ten-minute walkfrom my house and in an age， not so longago， when children could go home for lunchand find their mothers waiting.
At the time， I did not consider this aluxury， although today it certainly wouldbe. I took it for granted that mothers werethe sandwich-makers， the finger-paintingappreciators and the homework monitors.
I never questioned that this ambitious，intelligent woman， who had had a careerbefore I was born and would eventuallyreturn to a career， would spend almostevery lunch hour throughout my elementaryschool years just with me.
I only knew that when the noon bellrang， I would race breathlessly home. Mymother would be standing at the top of thestairs， smiling down at me with a look thatsuggested I was the only important thingshe had on her mind. For this， I am forevergrateful.
Some sounds bring it all back： the high-pitched squeal of my mothers teakettle，the rumble of the washing machine in thebasement and the jangle of my dogs licensetags as she bounded down the stairs togreet me. Our time together seemed devoidof the gerrymandered schedules that nowpervade my life.
One lunchtime when I was in the thirdgrade will stay with me always. I had beenpicked to be the princess in the school play，and for weeks my mother had painstakinglyrehearsed my lines with me. But no matterhow easily I delivered them at home，as soon as I stepped onstage， everyword disappeared from my head.
Finally， my teacher took measide. She explained that she hadwritten a narrators part to the play，and asked me to switch roles. Herword， kindly delivered， still stung，especially when I saw my part go toanother girl.
I didnt tell my mother whathad happened when I went home forlunch that day. But she sensed myunease， and instead of suggestingwe practice my lines， she asked if Iwanted to walk in the yard.
It was a lovely spring day andthe rose vine on the trellis wasturning green. Under the hugeelm trees， we could see yellowdandelions popping through thegrass in bunches， as if a painter hadtouched our landscape with dabs ofgold. I watched my mother casuallybend down by one of the clumps. “Ithink Im going to dig up all theseweeds，” she said， yanking a blossomup by its roots. “From now on， wellhave only roses in this garden.”
“But I like dandelions，” Iprotested. “All flowers are beautiful，even dandelions.” My mother lookedat me seriously. “Yes， every flowergives pleasure in its own way，doesnt it？” She asked thoughtfully.
I nodded， pleased that I had wonher over. “And that is true of peopletoo，” she added. “Not everyone canbe a princess， but there is no shamein that.”
Relieved that she had guessedmy pain， I started to cry as I told herwhat had happened. She listenedand smiled reassuringly.
“But you will be a beautifulnarrator，” she said， reminding meof how much I loved to read storiesaloud to her. “The narrators part isevery bit as important as the part ofa princess.”
Over the next few weeks，with her constant encouragement，I learned to take pride in the role.
Lunchtimes were spent reading overmy lines and talking about what Iwould wear.
Backstage the night of theperformance， I felt nervous. A fewminutes before the play， my teachercame over to me. “Your motherasked me to give this to you，” shesaid， handing me a dandelion. Itsedges were already beginning to curland it flopped lazily from its stem.
But just looking at it， knowing mymother was out there and thinkingof our lunchtime talk， made meproud.
After the play， I took home theflower I had stuffed in the apron ofmy costume. My mother pressed it betweentwo sheets of paper toweling in a dictionary，laughing as she did it that we were perhapsthe only people who would press such a sorry-looking weed.
I often look back on our lunchtimestogether， bathed in the soft midday light. Theywere the commas in my childhood， the pausesthat told me life is not savored in premeasuredincrement， but in the sum of daily rituals andsmall pleasures we casually share with lovedones. Over peanut-butter sandwiches andchocolate-chip cookies， I learned that love，first and foremost， means being there for thelittle things.
A few months ago， my mother came tovisit， I took off a day from work and treatedher to lunch. The restaurant bustled withnoontime activity as businesspeople madedeals and glanced at their watches. In themiddle of all this sat my mother， now retired，and I. From her face I could see that sherelished the pace of the work world.
“Mom， you must have been terribly boredstaying at home when I was a child，” I said.
“Bored？ Housework is boring. But youwere never boring.”
I didnt believe her， so I pressed. “Surelychildren are not as stimulating as a career.”