Hairy Mother's Day

Mother's Day is a time for mothers to sit back, relax, and enjoy a day of not having to wait on anybody.  It's the polar opposite of Father's Day.  Mother's Day is all candy, flowers, and kindness while Father's Day is all beer, bacon, and booty.

Except this year, for my wife, there was booty.  I'm not talking the good kind though.  I'm talking hairy man-ass.  You see, my back gets thrown out more than a cursing back-up dancer in a Southern Baptist church.  And, like all good men, I fight the pain for a solid six weeks (or months) before doing anything about it.

It's finally broken me and I can't take the pain anymore.  I can't sit, I can't lift the baby, and I can't do much of anything other than make grunting noises.  If it wasn't for our six-hour flight coming up on Friday, I still wouldn't do anything about it.

But on Mother's Day, my wife had enough of my groans and grunts.  She said (and I quote), "Stop whining like a little bitch and come here."  God, how I love her.

The next 45 minutes were pure torture.

She had me lay down and began to work my buttocks over with an Ultrasound machine, a heating pad, some weird vibrating belt-sander, and a bag of frozen peas.  I won't give you the gory details, but I will say I feel violated.  Not the good kind of violated, but the prison kind.  I'm pretty sure what she did to me is illegal in most states.

Her tools of torture.

 When she finished, she told me to roll over, go to sleep, and never feed her those peas.  I'm not sure, but she might have lit a cigarette when she was done.  Torture for me.  Pleasure for her.  It's possibly the best Mother's Day present she's received.  Forty-five minutes of causing me bodily harm.  Two days later and I still can't walk straight.

She spent so much time working on me on Mother's Day.  I feel bad.  I owe her.  Perhaps another home-cooked meal would be a good place to start.

  Bottoms up!