I have a confession to make: I am not a mother. Nor do I play one on TV. I am, according to most medical experts, a dude. Nonetheless, I feel moderately qualified to discuss motherhood as I am related to no less than six mothers – two of whom for which I am responsible for getting gifts on Mother’s Day.
One of these mothers is, of course, my own. And although I’ve long since outgrown the appropriateness of constructing “cards” made from 2 parts pipe cleaners, 3 parts glitter, 4 parts felt and 8,679 parts glue, that doesn’t mean I won’t bust out some yarn, dowel rods and googly eyes and proceed to craft a masterpiece only a mother – my mother – could love. Plus, I’ll get to spend hours peeling dried Elmer’s off my fingertips. Everybody wins.
The second mother deserving of my thoughtful consideration is none other than my wife. This will be her second Mother’s Day as a bona fide mom and my first as a dad. Kidding. We have boy/girl twins who are just over a year old. Which means I’m responsible for getting something that says “I love you for all the hard, awesome, incredible work you do as the Epitome of All Things Motherly,” as well as something from the kiddos that says “We Love You So Much We Spit Up on This Card and We Each Made a BM.”
And finding that card at Hallmark is not easy. Possible, yes. But rarely involving “Peanuts” characters, which is quite disappointing. Although Garfield apparently has no misgivings about diaper-based hilarity.
I cannot wait for the day when I can haul the dynamic duo to the mall, wander about the retail wonderment and let them pick out their own gifts. (Ten-dollar limit.) Because kids will consider buying stuff for their moms that dads would never think of. Or would think better of. Or have been told repeatedly to stop buying. Hannah Montana lip gloss. Oven mitts. Sea monkeys. Go-karts. Being the dutiful dad, I will steer them away from most of these gifts (sea monkeys are apropos in any situation), past the 99¢ Store and Your Name on Rice kiosk and toward something their mom will have an easier time pretending to appreciate.
I mean, can a woman have too much Lady Stetson? Check back with me in 2013.
Some years the kids will be coerced into making their Mother’s Day gifts. The lessons to be learned from making one’s own gifts are legion. There are the practical skills of attaching dried pasta to paper plates, as well as the more metaphysical idea that a job worth doing is a job worth doing with power tools and a modified, laser-equipped Bedazzler. Mom also learns a few lessons, of course. First, that her children love her enough to only eat 20% of their gifts before wrapping them. Second, if she desires a truer representation of her hair, she should buy more angel hair pasta and less rotini.
Unfortunately, that’s a few years away. In the here and now the kiddos are of marginal help and I’m still faced with issue of what to buy, create or do for my lovely wife. (Last year, I jokingly floated the idea that I shouldn’t have to get her anything because she isn’t my mom, for which I simply received The Glare.) With the economy continuing to be funky in a decidedly non-James Brown manner, I must rely more on thoughtfulness than ever before.
She still hasn’t used the massage gift certificate I gave her for Christmas, so I can’t dip into that well again. I could get her another devotional book like “Minestrone for the Mother of Twin Hooligans’ Soul.” But that gift has a slight undertone of “you’re not spiritual enough, Sweetie.” What she really needs is sleep. About 36 straight days’ worth at this point. But internet-sourced Lunestra seems so impersonal. And I’d be more apt to keep it for myself anyway.
I suppose I could simply remind her that she was and is and always will be the answer to my prayers. Perhaps tell her that, even with so little practice, she’s already a more fantastic mother to our kids than I could have ever imagined. I could even put that in a column to be read by thousands of people. A little public proclamation of her awesomeness.
Nah. I think I’ll stick with the felt.