So I don’t like to be too demanding. All I ask is that for this one morning, someone else let out and feed the dogs and make the coffee. I figure I do it every other morning…see how easy it is to slip into guilt-inducing martyrdom? Oh, just nominate me for sainthood and get it over with.
So once I have my extra half hour of sleep – or as much sleep as you can get once the dogs have wolfed down their food and now want attention – I’m pretty content. Just leave me alone the rest of the day and feed me dinner that night. Anything else after this I consider gravy.
Dirtman, however, is convinced that I will slit my wrists or something unless my perceived “sacrifices” for the sake of my family are duly acknowledged by the Heirs in the form of attendance at whatever activity I choose. So around 9 o’clock every Mothers’ Day, he can be heard rousing the Heirs from sleep with phrases like, “It’s the least you can do” or “You go down there and tell your mother you’d rather sleep in than acknowledge her day.”
So we embark on what begins to look like a forced march through antique malls and thrift shops, an activity Dirtman and I usually engage in by ourselves.
It’s not that the Heirs don’t observe Mothers’ Day. Heir 1 has established the tradition of giving me a CD he mixes featuring songs he thinks I would be interested in that I wouldn’t come across myself. Heir 2 prefers to offer work hours instead. So for the week he’ll clean my cat’s litter box for me or tackle a large chore I’ve been putting off.
We’re all cool with this. Except for Dirtman.
I might add that shopping anywhere with the Heirs walks a thin edge between hilarity and embarrassment. It gets even more treacherous when indefinable antiques enter the picture. If they can’t figure out what something is, they will make up a use for it, usually involving a disgusting bodily function.
So this year was no different and, while surprisingly few