My son and I were going to go fishing on Mother’s Day. It’s a theme of sorts – the year I moved to Montana, he got me a set of waders, to underscore the fact that by sheer virtue of living here, I was going to be a fly fisher(wo)man.

This year, we took one look at the rivers and decided, pretty much as we have every May, that maybe the best way to catch fish was to go out for sushi. After which, he got me an ice cream cone. Between that and a phone call from his sister, Kate, who lives in Denver, I was about as happy as a mom could be. More to the point, the ice cream treat reminded me of when the kids were little, and their idea of the fanciest possible breakfast in bed on Mother’s Day was ice cream in a pretty little glass dish. And coffee. Lots of coffee.

I love the grown-up dinners and the grown-up conversations we have now on Mother’s Day, but I confess to missing those early-morning everything-bad-for-you-but-oh-so-good breakfasts, the hushed giggling outside the bedroom door, the spills on the steps. And I also catch myself wondering: Why should ice cream for breakfast be limited to Mother’s Day? Wouldn’t the best way for me to honor my children’s most excellent idea, lo those many years ago, be to sneak a predawn dish every now and then, hmmmm? Talk about starting the day with a smile!

Gwen Florio