Mother's Year

Last Christmas Eve we ran out of milk. Pulling up to my local 24/7/365 Walgreens I was surprised by the number of cars in the parking lot. I expected the place to be all but abandoned, if not for the holiday, but for the fact that it was 10:30 at night.

As I bustled through the sliding doors I noticed a familiar smell. Closing my eyes, I lifted my nose in the air to get a better sniff. Oh yes. It was a scent I'd encountered many times before. A nice mixture of testosterone and panic.

Droves of frenzied men paced the aisles, trying to both start and finish their holiday shopping in the same trip. Some frantically compared the ingredient list on the back of perfume boxes. Some stared catatonically at picture frames. Some tried to buy off the pharmacist. Some wondered if their wives would pack up the kids and leave if she unwrapped a Hello Kitty Chia Pet on Christmas morn.

In case you're wondering, the answer is no, I will not pack up the kids and go to my mother's house, because that would make your life a whole lot easier thankyouverymuch. No, I'm going to sit right here and remind you of your gift giving incompetence by giving you the stink eye over this furry green demon cat while you eat your pancakes.

It's not like holidays sneak up on us. In the words of the classic Christmas carol, “Christmas comes this time each year, DUMB DUMB!”

The 'dumb dumb' was later edited out, but it's still implied. Holidays, weddings, birthdays, showers... if I don't buy it, it doesn't get done. Before we were dating my husband was one of the midnight convenience store present shoppers – I am regularly regaled with the tale of how he bought his family windshield wiper fluid one Christmas.

So I don't know why I'm so surprised when I get a fistful of blooms from the flowers in our back yard (that I bought, planted, watered and fed, p.s.) and a nice pat on the back every Mother's Day. When I joked about it with my husband, he said, “Shouldn't the kids technically be getting you something for Mother's Day? I mean... you're not MY Mom.”

I asked if he would like his last words inscribed on his tombstone, or if he would just like for them to continue to hang in the air while I have visions of swinging him around the playroom by his eyebrows.

But now it's confession time. Just between us girls... I love that my husband doesn't put any thought into Mother's Day. I would be disappointed if he bought me something. In fact, I even make it a point to buy him the most thoughtful, heart felt gift I can dream up merely a month later for Father's Day.

One year I spent two weeks (I'm mechanically handicapped) assembling Adirondack chairs exactly like the ones we sat on during our vacation. One year I hunted until I found the exact same brand and style of his favorite shorts that he ripped. Why, you ask? Some girls might get pretty flowers or a nice card, but I can milk the fact that he didn't get me anything for 365 whole days.

“Honey – can you change the baby's diaper (make me a sandwich/give me a neck rub/let me get lipo)? Since you didn't get me anything for Mother's Day, we'll just count that as my gift.”

Sometimes I can even manage a quiver in my voice or a tear. I like to think of myself as a “glass half full” kind of girl. Putting a positive spin on things my husband does that drive me crazy keeps me from putting his hand in a cup of warm water after he falls asleep.