Mother’s Day terrifies me. I have an opportunity to make up for everything I may have done poorly, am doing wrong or will do poorly as a husband and as the caretaker in the house. If I get it right, brownie points until her birthday. If I get it wrong, the Sirens will howl for my head.
So, it is with this thought that I share the following: I was shopping for cards for my wife for Mother’s Day, when my friend Virginia sidled up to my cart. After we greeted each other warmly, she looked at the cards (plural) in my hand and started on a diatribe that I wouldn’t have expected coming from her.
“I don’t get it,” she said. “Why do women, smart, professional women, put such store in a made-up holiday? It’s sexist and certainly can’t mean that much to a woman!”
Although taken aback, I knew Virginia well enough to reply.
“Well, Virginia,” I said. “Men need as many opportunities as possible to build up Brownie Points and dig themselves out of holes as possible.” My wife doesn’t really like Mother’s Day, but she does like having time to herself without the kids and me hovering around. I often find myself in awkward situations where the truth is obviously the right choice, and I never, ever shade or shape my answers to protect the innocent (me).
“I have trouble finding my keys or my cell phone or both my keys and my cell phone, so Heidi has trouble reaching me. Then, of course, I’m always forgetting where I need to go and when I have to be there. That seems to get me in a lot of hot water.
And, then, there are times when I go outside without telling her where I’m going forget what I’m doing, start a chore and come in late having missed dinner with the kids and helping put them to bed. Sometimes I tell her where I’m going, but get home much later than I’m supposed too. That seems to raise some shackles.
My television shows, my clothes, my shoes, my breath, my memory, my hearing (selective), my inability to manage my cellphone and schedule, keep the house and/or house clean or clean the house for the house cleaner, my nose, my allergies, sense of humor and bad timing, seem to irk her and yet we have two beautiful children, happy and healthy.
It makes a great deal of sense to me and most men to give cards, take them out to dinner and just show them that their forbearance means something to us.”
Well, I think women shouldn’t be fooled by such obvious malarkey. Women are crazy, she retorted.
As she said these last words, she gave me a peck goodbye on the cheek and prepared to go on her merry way.
“Virginia. I’m sorry, but in marriage, there is no sanity clause.”