Debi Mazar’s Mother’s Day Celebration

Our life is a freight train — a constant grind of family, jobs, chores and occasional headaches, just like everybody else’s life. Being that we live in New York City, this is somewhat amplified by the “concrete jungle” and the city’s never-ending buzz. This is not our house in Fiesole, Italy, where we can find peace by taking a walk in the olive orchard, or by simply sitting on a tree stump and waiting to spot a deer, pheasant or hare.

What works for Debi and me is to gift each other with free time: One of us takes care of it all, and the other one takes care of himself or herself. It does not sound as romantic as it is; our lifetime is always running too fast, and this is the only way we can find a pause.

Mother’s Day is one of those calendar events that is, for our family, as important as Christmas, and the girls and I always end up having a blast celebrating “Debina.”

Breakfast in bed is the way we always get the day going: some ricotta pancakes, a glass of blood orange juice, cards and flowers, and possibly the third coffee of the day. Debi and I always wake up before our girls, so by the time Giulia and Evelina are ready to party, Debi and I have already fueled up on two mugs of espresso each. Depending on Mother’s needs (and mood) we might all take a fantastic walk to the park and take along a couple of panini in a bag, or Debi might book a massage and a pedicure, in which case the girls and I would have our own time. Dinner is when we all come together and prepare a menu that usually has been decided upon and shopped for a couple of days in advance.

This year we already have plans: Debi will dance off the whole day with Uncle Robert at a celebration of New York’s historical Paradise Garage on King Street. The girls and I will toss a coin between Coney Island and roller-skating, which is something they both discovered recently, as we live very close to a great public park.

I am secretly itching for Father’s Day, when I will disappear for an all-day motorcycle ride.

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