Of Mussolini, Motherhood, and Margaritas

If we're going to be clear about anything on this blog, let it be this - as a mother, I'm not an A+.  I wouldn't even say I'm a B+.  I'm probably a pretty solid B, with some B- days.  A lot like my college GPA, but I tried a lot less there.  (Sorry Mom and Dad.  It's true.  I was a world-class slacker.)

I hope you all had a lovely Mother's Day.  Let me tell you about mine.  The only real requirement I have for Mother's Day is that I get to eat out somewhere.  Usually I prefer it's somewhere I like, which means they serve alcohol in one of the four meal drinking groups:  Bloody Mary, Beer, Margarita, Wine.

8 a.m. -  Current Husband grumbled "Happy Mother's Day" as I got out of bed to make coffee for myself.  By 9:15, I'm drinking the coffee I made, watching the kids start to eat Garden Salsa Sun Chips because everyone is hungry, and eyeing CH, who is still asleep in bed.  "Fuck it", I think to myself, and make everyone pancakes.  CH smells pancakes, rolls out of bed and comes to the table, and Youngest Daughter says, "Happy Father's Day!"  The other kids quickly shush her, and angry whisper, "It's MOTHER'S Day!"  An uneasy silence descends.  They quickly throw a card about feral cats and a Starbucks gift card at me.  I am temporarily sated.

10 a.m. - I announce everyone is going outside to do yardwork.  The Son picks up a shovel, puts it in the ground, and comes around the corner, holding his shoulder and wincing.  Here is what he says:

"Um, Mom, I know how you hate it when we hurt ourselves, but I think I've done something really bad to my shoulder."

OUCH.  Do I really have such a hissy fit when they get hurt that their first impulse is to swallow back the bile of pain and apologize for inconveniencing me?  I guess that makes me a summa cum laude graduate of the Mussolini School of Mothering.  So I call CH out and tell him to take The Son to Urgent Care.  Hello!  I made the pancakes!

11:00 a.m. - They leave.  Breakfast is off the table, and so is brunch.  I go to Home Depot and buy 15 bags of sand for the flagstone walkway I want, four bags of wet potting soil, and four bags of mulch.  I carry said bags of sand, soil, mulch, and flagstone. 

3 p.m. - CH and The Son come home - his arm is in a sling, and they say he needs an MRI.  Last week, Oldest Daughter came home from school with a headache, and the school suggested I take her to a neurologist, so I'm not sure if everyone is trying to save themselves from potential lawsuits or they think my children are Seconds From Disaster.

4 p.m. - I am now sweating like a hog and have two days of stubble in my pits and three weeks of stubble on my legs (I know - CH is one lucky son-of-a-bitch).  The men announce they are hungry after three hours in urgent care, and I don't have time to shower, since everything will fill up shortly.  Anywhere that serves liquor is going to require a shower, unless we take the kids to a motorcycle bar, and honestly I would probably get kicked out of there as well.  The Son is hungry and slinged up.  "This is not about me," I have to repeat to myself.  "If you choose a margarita over your son's comfort, you are a rotten bitch who deserves food poisoning AND chlamydia."  (Note:  I do not currently have either of these maladies.) 

4:30 p.m. - We go to Sonic.  I sit in the front seat, stubbled legs holding a cheeseburger and onion rings (yes, like Velcro), chocolate malt in my hand, and listen to my kids laughing in the back of the van.  Okay, this isn't so bad.  I can drink all I want when they move out of the house.  Naked.

"QUACK."

There she was.  A mother duck, outside of my van window at Sonic.  She picked my window, probably because she got up at the ass crack of dawn, gathered up all the waterbugs herself to feed the ducklings, cleaned up the nest, and all she wanted was a margarita and saw a kindred spirit.  I threw a big chunk of bread out of the window, and then another, and another.  It's Sonic for both of us, honey.  They'll leave the nest soon enough, and then I'll take you out for a jumbo margarita.