They Call Me Mom

They call me Mom, and now, 5 years in, I had the perfect Mother’s Day.

Not that the others have been at all bad, they just weren’t perfect.

On my first Mother’s Day, JB bought me a little snow cone machine.
What, you say?

You see, my first real job (which required a wee exaggeration about my age) was back up snow cone maker at the flea market. People, you haven’t lived until you’ve worked at either a flea market or as a carnie. These things are important, eye-opening life experiences.

My second Mother’s Day I was puking my way through the first trimester of Elliot’s gestation. I spent several months bitterly accusing everyone of hiding onions in their pockets since no where in existance was there a place not reeking with onion taint. I also febreezed the dogs. A lot.

My third Mother’s Day… um? I had a small infant with weight gain issues and a 2 1/2 year old. I don’t even remember the third one.

My fourth Mother’s Day, I hosted my mom and her sister as part of Mom’s 60th birthday. The original plan was for JB to take the boys with him, but large chunks of the interstate were torn up from a really nasty tornado a few weeks beforehand. Since he was getting blasted from all sides with reminders about the fury of mother nature– a lot of damage near and around us, he was really suffering with the anxiety. So instead of getting breakfast cooked for me, I was cooking breakfast. Hunh, suddenly not feeling so bad about my own mom’s tardy Mother’s Day present this year.

This one though, the fifth Mother’s Day? Perfect Mother’s Day.

And why? Because I was selfish as hell today, y’all. Couldn’t have done it without my darling husband–so much thanks JB!

I slept in, ate waffles that I didn’t cook, crawled back into bed to read, took a nap. Woke back up at 11 am(!), called my own mom. Ate a lunch I didn’t cook, listened to my oldest read a book about Tom Sawyer, played with pictures, and then ate a dinner I didn’t cook. Sort of ran. Surfed the internet.

I didn’t do a load of laundry, wash a dish, wipe a butt, or blow a nose. I didn’t negotiate fights. I didn’t do bath time, change bed sheets, or answer the whining cries of over-tired children.

I didn’t do a single load of laundry (I’ll regret that tomorrow), vacuum up a single speck of dog hair, sweep a single floor. I sneered at a dirty toilet (BOYS!), but didn’t clean it.

JB bought me a cordless, lightweight drill. Perfect for my oddly child-sized hands. My kids made Mother’s Day cards with a Ghostbuster’s theme.

I totally rocked my pipe-cleaner bracelet today.

More than that, I sat and thought about the many things that made me happy last week, even during a week where many things made me sad, angry, and mean.

Watching this guy swagger into preschool graduation, very full of himself (in a good way).

Excuse me a minute, wasn’t he a year old, like a minute ago? I didn’t get all weepy about him graduating; I really enjoy having semi-self-sufficient children. I’m thrilled that my sleep deprivation is now by choice, and that I no longer wear spit up in mockery of flower corsages.

Then there is my entomologist in training. I already heard the phrase “we can catch the lady bugs with the light sabers” when the Small People and the Small People friends released a dozen in the bedroom… on accident, of course. It doesn’t take much for me to recognize that I will eventually find some container of unrestrained bugs in my house.

But only the worms get to drive the John Deer.

There is something very sweet about the three year old– because when life is very good for him it’s very good. And when it’s not good, he very calmly asks for a meeting.

We played host to Jenny, which was lovely because she’s a lovely girl. On the morning of her scheduled departure, Elliot was kind enough to pack her suitcase and roll it to the front door. I mean, she wasn’t leaving until around dinner, but he was ready. It would seem that splitting the attention of his two favorite people, me and Zach, isn’t on his To Do list.

Or maybe he had Batman shirt envy.

Bow-chicka-wow-wow, lady bug love. It makes me giggle, because I’m 12.

Having a fellow drill-as-gift-recipient and DIYer link to me in a Mother’s Day post as a mom who makes her think. I like to make people think, as long as it isn’t “what a ditz”.

And finally, Noah, covering I’m Sexy and I know it.

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