Hey folks! What did you get for Mothers Day?
My son gave me the requisite handmade card with a poem, which was beautiful. (I’m a sap. I keep everything he makes me. I’ve kept all of his clothes and I have a tough time washing off kisses. Okay, awwwww.) But the not so good part was that he woke me at 6:30 to give it to me. Apparently his teacher forgot to mention how it’s a law that mom gets to sleep in on that one day. But the even better part was that as he was coming out of his room, he stepped in a huge lake of dog urine and had to freak out and shriek “GROSS!!! Mom, it’s still hot!!! Hurry!” for me to come and clean it up. That was just the start. Our old, suddenly incontinent dog pissed herself again not once, but three more times that day. I wasn’t angry with her. It’s just, come on, Mothers Day? She doesn’t seem to be in pain, but I know I’ll have to make some decisions.
So the hubby, who is just abysmal at gift giving, got up that day and hurried into town. And came back three hours later with dirt.
“Happy Mothers Day! I got you dirt for your flower beds!”
Um, Thanks? Is there a card?
“Shit. No. But here’s a shovel.”
I thought perhaps he was willingly going to let me bury him, but sadly not. It seems he won’t go down without a fight. He’s sort of an asshole that way.
The day was spent with me, alternately, shovelling dirt and wiping up urine. It got so confusing and frenetic that at one point, I strapped the spade to my belt and tucked the roll of paper towel in my bra strap, just so I was prepared. Hubby looked at the vision of his dirty, smelly wife and said “Nice outfit”. To which I bellowed “I AM A MACHINE!!!” and flexed a non-existent muscle.
I think he felt a bit sorry for me so we dropped everything and drove to town to get a cheesecake. On the way back we stopped at our local overpriced beer, gas and condom store, where they have six baby bunnies living under the deck. (Yes, I asked about that. I guess it’s almost impossible to get a condom on a rabbit.)
So the son and I watched these cute little hand sized bunnies hop around for a while. Oh, such a bad idea.
“Mummy, I really, really, really want a bunny!” in his best whiny, nobody loves me voice.
My brain kicked into exhausted overdrive.
“No, you never, ever want a baby bunny. You have to rip its head off and drink its blood at age ten as a right of passage into manhood. It’s just awful.”
“Um, what?” with his best ‘you’re shitting me’ voice. Then his dad chimed in.
“It’s true. And I had to take a bite out of the still-beating heart of the first deer I ever shot.”
To which I replied, “Are you kidding me? You expect him to believe that?”
“And the bunny story makes more sense?”
We argued about which tale would scar him less all the way home. The son sat in the backseat quietly. Rolled his eyes a few times and sighed his ‘you guys are so fucked up’ sigh. Minimal damage done.
The day ended with showers, cheesecake for supper and a movie. But next year? Right after my morning kisses, I’m getting the hell out of here. I think it’ll be safer for all.