I had just woken up, made my coffee, and turned on the TV. I was only half paying attention to the lady on the morning news when I thought she said, “Happy Mother’s Day.”
Why on Earth would she say “Happy Mother’s Day”?
I turned the channel, and again, the person on the other news channel said, “Happy Mother’s Day”.
It’s Mother’s Day? How can it be Mother’s Day? Wasn’t it Mother’s day a few months ago? Or maybe that was Valentine’s Day or Christmas or something.
Nevertheless, it’s We-do-love-and-appreciate-you-but-as-usual-We-forgot-to-buy-you-something-that-proves-it day.
I quietly wake up the girls and we all go into full scramble alert. They know the routine well, as it comes several times a year on Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, my wife’s birthday, and occasionally even on Christmas.
Natalie will rummage through the refrigerator and cupboards to find whatever she can to make up one of her notorious breakfasts in bed for the wife/mom. She had become a master at pulling together a four-star feast from grocery and leftover remnants that happen to be in the refrigerator and cupboards. Past breakfasts in bed have included a bowl of chocolate chips, Flamin’ Hot Doritos, leftover pizza and even old Halloween candy.
With the excuse of needing to run to the store for toilet paper, Hannah and I take the opportunity to make a flying trip to the drug store during said breakfast, to grab some flowers, a card and maybe an item from the crappy cheap gift aisle . . . . . maybe a mug that says “You’re Awesome!” or a shark stuffed animal toy (I will claim to say that I thought sharks were her favorite animal after my wife opens the gift and gives me a strange look).
Quickly we return home to wrap the presents with newspaper or place into a re-gifted gift bag that is adorned with a Hello Kitty design. The added touch of “Mom” and a heart are magic-markered onto the bag or wrapping paper.
Then when all is as ready as we can possibly make it, the three of us will file into our bedroom and present our well planned, spare no expense Mother’s day celebration.
My wife is awesome. Each time the morning panic of a forgotten holiday ravages our house and the banging of cupboards signals that she is about to enjoy one of the most horrible breakfast in bed’s she has ever had, she gracefully pretends to not know what is happening. She will cheerfully eat her Mother’s Day breakfast and act over-whelmed with joy over our gifts . . . . . every time . . . and that is why I love her.