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!

Pack-Rat Parenting

I love my Mom.  And I say that not only because she finally ditched dial-up and can now read this blog, but because I mean it.  Having said that...she's a pack rat.  She saves everything.  Maybe it's better to say that she saved everything.  Everything from my childhood.  18 years worth of birthday cards, newspaper clippings, Perfect Attendance records, and of course, a jar of baby teeth.

Some of the things she gave me were extremely cool (as in nerdy):

  First Editions of Simpson Comics

  The movie seemed cool at the time.  Thank God for Christopher Nolan.

It's not easy to save that stuff, especially the baby teeth.  Caleb swallowed the first two teeth he lost and if it wasn't for spitting the third one out in the sink, it probably would have met the same digestive demise.

My parents have given me all the stuff they saved for me.  At least, I hope that's all there is, we don't have room for much more.  It has been a fun trip down memory lane,  perusing through all the old stuff, but between my rubber tubs of memories and my wife's we're running out of space.

I suggested she throw out all of her old stuffed animals and homecoming dresses.  She suggested I ditch my old comic books and basketball cards.

Stalemate.

When it comes to our children, I'd love to be able to save all of their drawings, school papers, and poorly-kilned ashtrays.  While the basement is full (at least 5 large Rubber-Maid tubs) of our memories, there is always more space in space.   Cyberspace.

  18 years of life reduced to a dark corner of the utility room.

Now, when my kids come home from school waving their papers proudly in the air, I can praise their hard work, take a picture, and wait for them to leave the room before throwing their crowning achievements in the trash.  I figure when they get older, instead of handing them five rubber tubs full of memories, I can hand them a flash drive.  Then again, you can't fit some of the coolest things on a flash drive:

  Thanks Mom!*

*Not Pictured:  Man-at-Arms, Orko, Tri-Klops, Stratos, Clawful, Manteena, and Skeletor.