A little yellow dress...for the woods?

I went to the mall with my mother on Saturday. That might sound banal, but the most important detail is that I went without any children.

I was able to touch the clothing. To wander around stores. To not have an agenda. To not stop and shove a granola bar in anyone's mouth to keep anyone quiet. I tried clothes on—for myself. I got the most gorgeous dress at Anthropologie (for the first time in my lifetime, everything in the store was 20% off):

I have no idea where or when I'm going to wear it, but it is soft, swishy and flattering. If I have to invent an occasion I will.

There's more: My mother and I went to a restaurant, where I sat down and chewed my food. I'd forgotten how wonderful it is to chew and swallow without jumping up to get water or seconds for someone or to answer questions with a mouth half-full of food. It was glorious.

When I got home, it was pouring. The kids were standing by the door.

"Come on! Come on!" they yelled. "We've been waiting for you!"

There, in the backyard, was our camping tent, set up just for me for Mother's Day. They'd decorated the outside of the tent with pink pinwheels.

"We couldn't make you a teepee because it was raining," Junior said. "So we made you this."

I crawled into the tent to find this, drawn on the back of a pizza box (I especially like the phallic tree hovering over my drawn tent—a subtle reminded that I am perpetually surrounded by male parts):

The cooler next to the air mattress was stocked with vodka and cups. I hugged them—the boys I mean. Thanked them. I curled up with the three boys and we listened to the rain. It was lovely. I poured myself a cocktail and snuggled deeper under the blankets. Something was missing though. I looked around. What was it?

Aha.

"Junior? Where's your father?"

"He, uh, hurt his back putting the tent up. He's on the couch with the heating pad."

Of course he was. Although mentally Chuck was prepared to give me a weekend of relaxation, his passive aggressive body had other intentions. If you don't believe me, this post from 2008 entitled, "I've had it with his damn organs!" proves my point nicely.

But whatever.

I had a tent—and I did sit in it. We might even sleep in it this weekend. I'm not giving up on my teepee either. Our backyard could soon be an oasis of repose and seclusion, decorated with twinkling lights, flowers, floral sheets, vodka bottles and decorated pizza boxes.

The perfect locale for a pretty yellow dress.

In this pickle party house

Of boogers, farts, potty humor and stinky feet, Chuck found the perfect card:





I guess if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

Happy Mother's Day to me, to you and to all the great mothers out there.

Cheesy holiday

My first Mother’s Day. I have to admit—sadly—that I was anticipating some disappointment as far as gifts, accolades, sleep. Two days beforehand, the mother’s message board I sometimes visit had posted a “don’t expect too much” thread in which the mothers told each other what a great job they were doing, in case they didn’t hear it from anyone else on Mother’s Day.

I found that to be particularly discouraging.

What I also found to be ahem, disappointing was my husband’s stance on Mother’s Day. We mutually agree that Valentine’s Day is an evil holiday. Just as you wind down from the gross commercialism of Christmas you are barraged with more ads about how you must buy your loved one something to show you care.

But I was taken aback to find that he had similar feelings about Mother’s Day. How dare he!

“What if I don’t get you anything for Father’s Day?” I asked him. (And then pinched him.)

“That’s fine.”

“Hah! We’ll see.” (As much as I’d like to prove him wrong I already got him a present, jackass.)

The rest of the day proved to be interesting. After I slept until 9, we packed up the car and drove down to New Haven, aka civilization.

Halfway into our stroll around the city I walked into a convenience store to buy some water. Two minutes later I was stuck in the middle of a shoplifting heist. It ended well—the shoplifter was conciliatory and swore he would never steal cheese again. Why cheese?

After all that excitement we decided to hit the road and meet my mother at a restaurant along route one in Westbrook. We were starving. Apparently everyone else was too because unless you had a reservation you couldn’t get food: they had run out.

So, to recap…I slept until 9. Got a Mother’s Day card that was given out of some sense of commercial obligation. Was caught in a cheese bust. Went to a restaurant that advertised “Mother’s Day specials” but was told there was no food.

Thankfully there was liquor. And I did love dressing Junior in a shirt that said, “Mom” on it. He’s starting to fight—to assert his independence. I fear these days are numbered.