Sunday, May 13, 2007
So's Your Mother
I know you're dying to know just how we celebrated this latest Mother's Day here at the Bucket household. Frankly, there's very little to tell. First we all get up and my wife is treated to not having to serve me breakfast in bed. We let her off with light kitchen duty, just some eggs and maybe some kind of pork product, no pancakes or waffles or anything like that.
Then my three boys and I will hang out, play some Nintendo Wii, maybe watch some NBA playoff basketball while my wife is allowed to not sit and watch and pretend to be interested. Usually she will go upstairs alone and weep softly into a pillow, which sounds bad, but that's only because you don't fully appreciate how much she hates NBA basketball. Trust me, she would WAY rather be doing the solitary weeping thing than Bulls-Pistons Game 4 on the Superstation.
And then, because we love her so, we will find something else she really hates to do and then the four of us--my boys and I--will go and do it together and specifically not invite her. This year it was miniature golf. Her look of abject gratitude is very similar to her look of wounded betrayal, so it's hard to say exactly how that part went over. But she hadn't moved out by the time we got back, so I assume it was OK.
Then, at the end of the night, Mrs. Pops and I uphold a longstanding family tradition on Mother's Day by engaging in spiritually dissatisfying but procreatively efficient acts of personal intimacy. I figure: what better way to celebrate Mother's Day than to expose my wife and mate once again to the possibility of fertilization? After all, it's not specifically "Mrs. Pops Day", it's Mother's Day. As in celebrating the wonders of motherhood, which is a very specific thing, biologically speaking. She cries every day afterward until she gets her visit from Aunt Flo, which is difficult emotionally, but like I said, it's family tradition. I never asked directly, but I assume that's how my mother's parents celebrated the day every year. Like good Catholics, they had 12 children. As rough as the intervening 28 (or so) days annually are, in the end we are always happy and grateful that while I was blessed with ole Grandpa's hairline, paunch and distrust for anyone with skin darker than mochaccino, I didn't quite get all of his legendary procreative potency.
And that, in the end, is for my wife, the greatest gift of all.
I am (quite literally) a motherfucker.
This post on the Narcissus Scale: 10.0