What I want for Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day last year was a bummer. No – let me put it another way. It was the worst Mother’s Day ever. No homemade cards, no flowers, no breakfast in bed. Oh wait, there was breakfast in bed, after I said something like, “What happened  to my breakfast in bed?” Then 12 brings up a plate  of strawberries, coffee with cream and sugar and an apple blossom sprig on a cookie tray. It was very sweet.

But. It. Was. Too. Late.

And — she tried to con me.

Don’t. Con. Me. On. Mother’s Day.

To top it off. Nobody wanted to come to church with me for the May crowning of Mary. Wouldn’t that be sweet? It should’ve been.

But it wasn’t. I actually got in the car, backed out of the driveway …and pulled back in the driveway after a picture popped in my head — I was sitting in a pew in church. Alone. On Mother’s Day.

I pulled back in the driveway.

 

I felt really bad. For me.

I didn’t even get a cake. Or pie. Or whatever light and sweet thing thing they make you eat for Mother’s Day (something lemon. It’s always something lemon).

So forgive me, TV commercials, Target ads, Internet and Facebook ads, if I scoff at your “things to get for Mom on Mother’s Day.”

F—you.

I don’t want perfume. Or a gardenia-scented candle. Or a pink scarf. Or gourmet chocolates shaped like gardenias.

I’ll take a box of wine. And some alone time.

I can buy it myself.

And you can go off on your merry way. No church. No breakfast in bed. The kids won’t have to lift a finger.

But I will.

Guess which one?

Sorry. I’m still mad.

 

 

We haven’t had our coffee

Wednesday morning. A typical one. I get up, walk the dog, feed said dog, step on the cat who is meowing for wet food, but will not be fed until after my shower because she peed on my boots, and get into the shower. After the shower, I put a load of laundry in the washer, flip on the local news, rouse the kids by turning the lights on in their rooms, ignore the sounds of snoring from my bedroom on my way back downstairs and turn on the coffee pot.

I get sh– done. I take care of things. I’m feeling pretty good.

15 comes downstairs, hair sticking up every which was because he a- does not comb his hair, b- does not look in the mirror to check his hair and c- does not care about his hair. “Bagel and cheese? “ I ask him. He grunts. “Take your vitamins,” I tell him. He grunts again and takes his vitamins. I pour him some orange juice because a- it’s healthy and b- I like to cover all the bases. Laundry? Check. Dog walk? Check. Rouse kids gently from bed so they have a good day at school? Check. Check.

Feeling good.

Soon the other one comes down. 13. She’s earlier than usual because she has a new denim jacket and she’s excited to wear it to school. If I had endless amounts of money for new clothes, she’d never have any trouble waking up. So. Same thing with her. I get out her vitamins, pour juice and instruct her to make her own bagel. (You can’t make breakfast for a 13-year-old girl, because they’ll walk all over you. That’s what Cro Magnon says. So I’m working on this). She makes a face and makes her bagel.

Feeling really good now.

Then I check the coffee. It’s dribbling grounds and black liquid all over the counter.

Sh–.

I dump it. I check the pot and the drainage holes. I make another pot. Then I go downstairs to put the laundry in the dryer.

15 is putting on his coat getting ready to head out the door. “Buy lunch,” I tell him. “Be good. Pay attention.” Check.

13 is by the gas stove warming herself and eating her breakfast.

The coffee pot is dribbling black liquid and grounds. Again.

Sh–. I do a more thorough check, re-rinse and clear things out again. I need coffee. Now.

I put on a third pot.

Cro Magnon comes downstairs. “Where’s the coffee?” Is all he can manage.

“It’s taking a while,” I tell him.

“You know why?” he says. (I can’t wait to hear this. At 7 a..m. Without coffee. “Because you didn’t put the pot in right.”

I want to cut him. At 7 a.m.

I dump the coffee. I let him clean things out. Because a- I’m looking forward to what happens next b- I’m going to rub it in.

He turns on the coffee. It percolates. It dribbles. So sloooowly. Into the pot. It doesn’t smell right. But Cro Magnon doesn’t notice.

“Working now,” he says.

Mhhmm. I say.

13 is off to school. It has been 15 minutes. There is less than a half inch of coffee in the pot.

“Guess we need a new coffee maker,” CM says.

No shit.

.

 

Because he’s busy

I like to get sh– done. So if I’ve got some free time and I see something that needs to be done. I do it.

This is sometimes upsetting to Cro Magnon. One morning this week, he’s looking around the kitchen, “Where’s my disgusting hat?”

Disgusting hat is, yes, disgusting. It smells like head cheese. Always. It is discolored from sweat and God-knows-what. It has paint on it. And very old spaghetti sauce stains. Or at least that’s what I think it is. So when I see it sitting on the kitchen counter (ew), I take it downstairs and toss it in the laundry. I pour plenty of detergent on it (even though I know it won’t cure the head cheese smell). I push “start.”

And here’s Cro Magnon. “Where’s my disgusting hat? I can’t work without my disgusting hat?”

Now what have I done? “Don’t you have another disgusting hat? You do. I know you do.”

“I guess I could wear one of these,” he says, looking at the three other slightly less disgusting hats on the shelf in the entry hall.

He’s actually disappointed. I almost tell him I could bury the hat in the cat box until its acceptably disgusting.

But no. He picks up a less-disgusting hat, puts it on and goes out the door to work.

Because he’s busy. And he can’t wait for disgusting.