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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 standing1 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 high-pitched squeal2 of my mother’s teakettle, the rumble3 of the washing machine in the basement, the jangle of my dog’s license4 tags as she bounded down the stairs to greet me. Our time together seemed devoid5 of the gerrymandered schedules that now pervade6 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 painstakingly7 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 words, kindly8 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 dabs9 of gold.
I watched my mother casually10 bend down by one of the clumps11, 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 reassuringly12.
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 the 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 about 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 flopped13 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 apron14 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 savored15 in pre-measured increments16 , 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 bustled17 with noontime activity as businesspeople made deals and glanced at their watches. In the middle of all this sat my mother, now retired18, and I. From her face I could see that she relished19 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 stimulating20 as a career.
A career is stimulating, she said. I’m glad I had one. But a career is like an open balloon. It remains21 inflated22 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.
我在一个小镇上长大，在那儿，从我家步行到我就读的小学只要10分钟。在那个时代——其实就是不久以前，孩子们可以回家吃午饭，妈妈总在等着。
但那时，我并没意识到这有多奢侈；而今，这肯定是一种奢望。可我当时还以为妈妈就该做三明治，就该鉴赏手指画，就该检查家庭作业。不仅如此，我还从没觉得有什么不对：这个志向远大、聪明伶俐的女人，在我出生前曾有一份自己的事业，有朝一日又将重新投身于自己的事业，却在我整个小学阶段，几乎每天的午餐时间都和我一起度过。
那时候，我只知道中午放学的铃一响，我就会气喘吁吁朝家里跑去。妈妈总会站在楼梯的上端，笑容满面地注视着我，分明在告诉我：在她心里，我是惟一重要的。对此，我永远心存感激。
一些声音总能勾起我对往事的回忆，比如说：妈妈的茶壶烧开水时发出的又长又尖的高声鸣叫，地下室里洗衣机发出的隆隆轰鸣声以及我的小狗欢跳着下楼迎接我时脖子上的小牌发出的叮当声。那时可不像现在，如今我的生活完全被各种日程安排所操纵。
三年级时的一个午餐时间我将永志难忘。那时候，我在学校排演的一出话剧中被选中饰演公主。在那几个星期里，妈妈费心地陪着我一遍又一遍地排练台词。但是，无论我在家里把台词背得多娴熟，一上舞台，那些词儿就消失得无影无踪了。
最后，老师把我叫到一旁，向我解释说，她为这出戏写了一个旁白的角色，要我换成旁白。尽管她说得很委婉，但仍刺痛了我，尤其是当我看到别的女孩取代自己演公主的时候，我心里难受极了。
那天中午回家吃饭时，我没把这件事告诉妈妈，但她感觉到了我的不安。于是，她没有提议我们继续练台词，而是问我愿不愿意和她一起到院子里走一走。
那是一个美好的春日，棚架上的玫瑰枝条正在泛绿。高大的榆树下，一束束黄色的蒲公英从草丛中探出头来，好像是一位画家在我们的山水画上涂抹了点点金黄似的。
我看见妈妈在一丛花旁漫不经心地弯下腰。“我想我应该把这些野草全拔掉，” 她一边说一边将一蔸开得正茂盛的花儿连根拔起。“从今以后，我们的花园里只有玫瑰。”
“可是，我喜欢蒲公英啊，”我抗议道，“所有的花儿都美丽——即使是蒲公英。”
妈妈神情严肃地看着我，若有所思地说：“不错。每一种花都以自己的方式给我们带来美的享受，难道不是吗？”我点了点头，很高兴自己说服了她。“其实，人也是如此，”她补充道，“并不是每个人都可以成为公主，这没什么可丢人的。”
原来，她早就猜到了我的烦恼。我哭了起来，哽咽着把所发生的事告诉了她。她一边聆听一边微笑着安慰我。
“但是，你会成为一个出色的旁白的。旁白的角色其实和公主一样重要。”她还提醒我说以前我是多么喜欢大声给她朗读故事。
随后的几个星期，在妈妈的不断鼓励下，我渐渐对这一角色感到自豪。而在那些午餐时间里，我们不是排练我的台词，就是讨论演出时我该穿什么服装。
演出那天晚上，我在后台感到很紧张。就在开演前的几分钟，老师向我走了过来。“你妈妈让我把这个交给你，”她一边说一边把一朵蒲公英递给我。它的边缘处已经开始卷曲，花叶从茎杆上耷拉下来。就是这短暂的一瞥，我就知道我的妈妈此刻坐在台下，想起我们午餐时间的谈话，一种自豪感不禁油然而生。
演出结束后，我把那朵蒲公英塞进了我演出服的口袋里带回了家。妈妈把它压在两张纸巾之间再夹进字典里，笑着说，这世上也许只有我们两人愿意把这么一株不起眼的野草小心翼翼地夹起来。
如今，沐浴在正午和煦的阳光里，我常回忆起我们一起度过的那些午餐时间。它们就像是我童年岁月里的小逗点儿。这些停顿告诉我，生命不是在预先量好的增额中来体味的，而是要在每天的生活琐事以及不经意中和所爱的人共享的许多小乐趣中去细细体味的。吃着花生酱三明治和巧克力曲奇条，我认识到：爱，首先并且最重要地，意味着关注那些微不足道的小事。
几个月前，妈妈来看我。我请了一天假陪她吃午饭。午时的餐馆熙熙攘攘，一些商人在吃饭，时不时地瞟一眼腕上的手表。在这些忙碌的人群中，我和现已退休的妈妈坐在那里。从她脸上，我看得出她非常羡慕上班族的工作节奏。
“妈妈，我小时候您呆在家里照顾我时，一定感到非常厌烦吧？”我问道。
“厌烦？家务活确实让人感到厌烦，但你永远也不会让我感到厌烦。”
我有些不相信，于是又说：“照顾孩子肯定不像工作那么具有挑战性。”
“工作确实非常具有挑战性，"她说,”我很高兴我有过一份工作。不过，工作就像是一个敞开口的气球，你只有一直给它充气，它才会保持膨胀。但孩子就像是一粒种子，你给它浇水，尽自己最大努力来呵护它。然后，它会自己成长起来，变成一朵美丽的花儿。"
就在那一刻，注视着妈妈，我仿佛又回到了她的厨房，和她一起坐在餐桌旁。也就在那一刻，我终于明白了我为什么要把那朵剥落的褐色蒲公英夹在那两张皱巴巴的纸巾里，至今仍珍藏在我们家的那本旧字典中。
收听单词发音 |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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2
squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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3
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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4
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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5
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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7
painstakingly
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| adv. 费力地 苦心地 | |
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8
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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9
dabs
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| 少许( dab的名词复数 )； 是…能手； 做某事很在行； 在某方面技术熟练 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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11
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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12
reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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13
flopped
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| v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的过去式和过去分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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14
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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15
savored
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的过去式和过去分词 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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16
increments
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| n.增长( increment的名词复数 )；增量；增额；定期的加薪 | |
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bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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18
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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19
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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20
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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21
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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22
inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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