After my child-rearing days came to a bittersweet end, Emily once said, “You made everything look easy. It was like magic, Mama.” I’ll never forget that.

She and her family landed in New Orleans for Thanksgiving and were picked up by Jacques while I tended to last minute errands. I bought Em her Pom Juice to mix with a healthy pour of Tito’s Vodka, filled candy dishes with Dom’s Peanut M&Ms, made sure his Half & Half was in the fridge for his morning coffee, hit The Dollar Store for a princess coloring book for Eve and a school bus with big tires for George, washed four sets of sheets, blankets and bedspreads, ironed pillowcases, put the bedroom ceiling fans on a soothing speed and dimmed the lights for a comfy cozy feel.

The house was lit with the warm glow of yellow lights flooding the columns while Jack-O-Lanterns and a turkey blow mold from the 1950s guarded the front steps. I dragged out table leaves our own Mr. America Casey Viator would’ve struggled with, steam-ironed napkins, set the table with fake flowers from Hobby Lobby, placed my Johnson Brothers His Majesty turkey plates on the table with precision, polished her grandmother’s silver flatware — and remembered. “It was like magic, Mama.”

“Have I forgotten anything?” were my thoughts throughout the night, then suddenly, YIKES! A friend gave us a crib and it sat in the garage out of site and out of mind. I was up at the crack of dawn and the second José woke up I uttered, “the crib!” — met by dead silence. I brought it in while trying to figure out who the poor schmuck would be on my Backup-Putup- A-Crib list while José stared at the TV — until I made lots of noise and dramatically sighed which then made him reluctantly available. He opened up the bag of not-enough-nuts-and-bolts and said, “We don’t have enough nuts and bolts.” I called my brother in a panic.

“Let’s go buy a crib,” Bo said.

We serpentined through Walmart knocking over anyone in our path, including old women and small children, grabbed a box the size of Utah and heaved and hoed until it rested on its axis in the buggy. Neither one of us could see where we were going. “Get out the way,” Bo’s voice was heard from behind the box as we giggled and grunted. It was one of the funniest times we’ve had, and the most awkward and heaviest thing we’ve ever hauled — and we’ve laughed and hauled a lot. Self-Checkout was the stuff legends are made of.

Bo set the crib up while I rushed to the store for the mysterious snacks 2-year- olds now enjoy and was headed home, again, when I got a text from Emily. “Put George’s birthday balloon in the storeroom so he doesn’t see it when we get there.” Oh no, I forgot to put helium in the balloon. “Done,” I texted back, drove home like a nut, grabbed the balloon Emily shipped, drove back to the same store and found the balloon man arranging pears in produce. I had no control over that gigantic gold No. 2 balloon and I’m sure I looked like every person I’ve ever made fun of for buying those stupid balloons.

All I could think about was losing it and trying to find another one like the one she sent since I already lied about it being in the storeroom. The only place the balloon wanted to be was on top of my head, so I let it sit up there as I rushed through the lot with hazardous wind-warning weather then shoved its awkward self into the storeroom, held it down with a sack of fertilizer seeds and shut the door. We took it out for George’s birthday and it lasted fifteen minutes until the gas escaped after which Eve and George spent most of the day beating it to death while I made 177 chicken salad sandwiches for the Christmas Concert. When no one was looking I confiscated the deflated No. 2 and brought it to the road.

“It was like magic, Mama.” I’ll never forget that.

PHYLLIS BELANGER MATA was born at the old Dauterive Hospital and grew up on Wayne Street. She is a 1974 graduate of Mt. Carmel Academy and is a chili dog “without the weenie” aficionado.