The sting from Mother’s Day is slowly subsiding. Yes, Mother’s Day.

For the special occasion, my three-year-old son answered a series of questions posed by his teachers for a special, keepsake memento for Mommy. Questions like:

“My mother’s eyes are _(green)___ . My mother’s hair is _(brown)__ . My mother’s favorite color is _(red)__ .”

Cute, harmless stuff. Then came the zinger, the one I can’t get out of my mind and has fueled both tears of laughter and sadness.

“My mother loves to _(WORK!!!!)_.”

OK, he didn’t actually yell the answer to his teachers (the caps and exclamation points are how I read it). But he might as well have. His answer gets to the heart of insecurity for most working moms I know. And it breaks my heart to think “work” is what first came to his mind.

My husband and my son’s teacher both worried I might take it the wrong way. I’m sorry: What good way is there to take it? Yes, I’m sure at three years old, my son said it as matter-of-factly as, “The sky is blue.” Still doesn’t make me feel any better. (That said, I’m sure I feel better than the mom whose son said: “My mother loves to ___(put me in time out.)_”)

A colleague at work, hearing my telling of the story, offered some insight that poured salt on the wound: “It’s not where you want to be that matters to children. It’s where you are.”

Leave it to my son to be the one to make me feel better. He overheard me reciting the Mommy questionnaire on the phone to my mother.

“You’re never going to believe what he said,” I told my mom.

“Your mother loves to …..” I continued.

Then my son chimed in: “Bake cookies!”

I looked at him, put the phone down and ran across the room to give him a big, fat kiss.

And then I wondered if permanent marker was a bit much to add a footnote to my cherished memento.

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