Coming down Jutie Wright Contributing Writer WHEN the conversation at our kids’ weekly play group turned to Mother’s Day on Monday mtorn- ing, I expected to hear the other mcthers describe a sumptuous breakfast in bed or a long soak in the tub with a trashy novel. But there was no sleeping in for the moms I know. No baths. No quiet time with a good book. One mother; waiting for the special treatment she'd been hinting for all week, wound up cooking the Mother's Day breakfast for her own mom. Another reminded her husband that it was Mother’s Day so he called his mom after dinner. Struck by a sudden realization, he looked ar his wife and mother of their one year old and said “Hey, I guess you’re a mother now too!” We all reported expectations on a scale closer ta mother worship. Forget appreciation or “It’s the thought that counts.” For those of us mothers who were relatively new to the job, we expected a perfect day, and as a result, what we got was disappointment. New fathers just didn’t seem to under- stand the role they were expected to play here and that was not fora lack of trying by some of my friends. Amore experienced mother gave me advice a few days after the event. She said, “I just told my husband and my kid ‘Nobody ask me for anything.”” This request was impossible for her family to fulfill, but that’s beside the paint. She, at least, had mellowed her expec: tations. 1 told my husband on Saturday that I didn’t expect a Mother's Day. We have two kids but until they're old enough to bring a tissue-paper carnation home from school, there will be no real Mother’s Day at our house, | said. What bull****. At 10:30 a.m. on Sunday, 1 stoad over the kitchen sink and contemplated making my own breakfast. With one eight-hour sleep, 400 diaper changes and 100 minigos served over the past three months, J was owed some serious mother worship, some sort of humungous validation to keep me going for another three months. “1 can’t believe this,” I thought. “I chink I'm about to cry.” E could feel the tears coming, and | just didn’t care any- more. “If anyone asks me how my Mother’s Day was, ru say ‘Ir was great. If they ask what I did, P'll say ‘the usual’.” As I was pushing two pieces of toast into the toaster, my husband tushed up behind me and asked what I was doing. With nary a second to spare, he pulled me back from the precipice of my total misery and served a special breakfast of hot eggs, toast and hashbrowns. I was presented with cards trom the babies, cheap perfume and a new small appliance. The rest of the day was terrific. The sun shone; we visited our own mothers and had a great time. Venice: The City of cats and canais Book reviews - TWO-books offer » diverse’ views of a city ~ known even to ‘people who have: never visited ite . Venice, the “city of canals, * is world renowned for its ’~ beauty and sense of romance. The many beautiful buildings and monuments are studied in depth in Ennio Concina’s book. Shin Otani’s pho- —_, tographs take a more svhim- sical look at the city, b' ~ showing it’s: beloved feline _ residents and their. special place in this unique setting. ‘ES A History of Venetian Architecture, by Ennio Concina, Cambridge - University Press, 386 - pages, $80.00. A labour of love for one of Europe’s jewels. Venice is a city made up of hundreds of islands, criss-crossed by over 150 canals and 400 bridges. Iris a water city” whose history