Mothers Day | Indian Week

Over the past few years, I’ve shared a lot of the special little parties I host for my grandchildren. What you might not know is that I have been doing these celebrations since I became a mother. Back in that life chapter, I would seldom have Art Day, Astronaut Day, or China Day. Instead, I would have an entire WEEK, going deep, immersing ourselves in a topic.

In 2018, as part of my Mothers Day gift, my daughters took me out for my favorite breakfast. Little did they know, I had a surprise gift in store for them - a memory of Indian Week in August, 1979, when Maggie was 5 and Mollie was 2.

In the photo above, you can see the back of the cards they are reading. Here’s what it says…

THE MAY TRIBE

My two little savages enjoyed a week as Indian braves. First, they made shields, headdresses, and masks. We used soft felt for buckskin, and decorated these hides with colorful crayon images of buffalo, eagles, and assorted beautiful Indian designs.

We also snagged an 8-foot end roll of heavy paper from a local printing company. From the last of the paper, we built and decorated a Native American teepee where we enjoyed bowls of maize, took our naps, and told stories of our ancestors’ adventures. We also used the leftover 8-foot tube to make an impressive totem pole, which we kept around for the whole summer.

We had to fight wars, hunt food, and track animals. When Daddy got home from work, we had a daily pow-wow with lots of dancing and chanting. The kids loved when they got to be Medicine Men. I told them the Spirits would give them their Medicine Man name and this would be the disease they would have magical power to drive out of the world.

They did a pre-school version of a Vision Quest, where Maggie decided she would be “Tic Doulouqreux” and Mollie decided her name was “Diarrhea Yuck Yuck.” After some very fancy dancing, they agreed these diseases were eradicated.

The favorite part for both kids was getting to paint each other’s bodies - war paint, pretend blood, and ceremonial dancing paint. The worst part for mom was bath time and cleaning paint out of ears and belly buttons - and scrubbing those dirty, little feet. (I don’t know how Geronimo managed Indian life without Q-tips). Being your mother was the greatest joy of my life. - Mom