Flowers delivered 27 days ago that you told her to check for that morning, so by the time she gets them, any virus left on them is dead, and so are they.
Sharing a Skype – she’s of a different generation – breakfast in bed, which is, incidentally, where you now eat all your meals. As a bonus, don’t ask her if she installed Zoom, you know she already tried.
A FaceTime in which you’re wearing that sweater she knit you, so she knows you like it (and have run out 100% of your laundry).
A cake that you actually instruct her on how to bake herself with ingredients she already has, because you want to minimize deliveries. Meanwhile, you eat frosting out of the jar to celebrate with her.
A concession that it actually is more pleasant to live in a home with clean floors. Now that you’re in your apartment all day, you do understand why she always nagged you to take your shoes off. You still don’t do it, but you can see why growing layers of filth and grime that will soon expand into their own disgusting carpet make an apartment slightly less pleasant. Slightly.
Anything not homemade. She never liked your macaroni necklaces, and when she’s been in quarantine another two weeks, she’ll admit it.
Singing Happy Birthday to her while you wash your hands. She’s wanted to give you feedback on your hygiene habits for months. Years, even. Besides, if we’re being honest, you forgot her birthday, so let’s make up for it now.
An Instagram post prefaced with, “No offense to everyone else’s moms, but mine is better.” Under ordinary circumstances, this would be a pathetic excuse for a gift, but now it’s allowed. Tack onto it an apology for doing it last year in lieu of calling her. Also, call her.
Letting her talk about the fight between her and the neighbor’s cat for at least 45 minutes before you cut her off and say, “ok, I think you’re reading a little too far into it, the cat hasn’t stolen your look.”
A photo of your family with your two sisters cropped out. She’ll think it’s funny, and you’ll get to be the youngest again.
Watching a British historical drama with her via screen-share, even though it’s boring and you rarely watch historical films that don’t feature Timothee Chalamet.
A vague promise that you might consider having kids, many years in the future, if we ever sort this thing out.
A concession that she was right to insist you stock up on food and Purell at the beginning of March, even though you wanted to spend the money on drugs, as you explained several times.
A concession that she was right about a lot of other things, too.
A day without calling her age bracket “vulnerable.”
A day without moaning, “Mommmmmmm, when is this gonna be over????” because she doesn’t know either and she doesn’t like it any more than you do
An entire phone call without crying to her about how this is specifically hard for you.
An apology for not visiting more often when we were still allowed to fly.
Telling her it’s going to be ok, for once, instead of the other way around.