by Jen Mann
I ran around the house, opened all the doors, and sat on the bumper to wait for him. No way was I going to go back and try to help him with his one-wheeled dolly. Fuck him. This was all his fault. And besides, I still had work to do to get ready for Thanksgiving and he was never going to help me. I always get ready by myself. He had one damn job and he couldn’t even do it right!
I was sitting there seething when he finally dragged his load around the corner of the house. “Okay, Jen,” he said, wiping his brow. “We just need to lift this up onto the bumper of the car and then slide it in.”
“And wreck the paint job on my car? Hell no.”
“Well, what do you suggest?”
I got a blanket and spread it out to protect my baby. “There. That should help.”
We counted to three and heaved the television off the ground and into the car. I’m pretty sure a blood vessel burst in my eye.
“Okay, now we just need to take it to the donation center,” the Hubs said. “Get the kids.”
“You get the kids,” I said, throwing myself into the passenger seat.
As the Hubs drove like a maniac to the center, the television slid precariously around the back end. “Could you stop taking turns so fast?” I asked.
“It’s fine,” the Hubs snapped at me. “Hey, Gomer? Do me a favor, buddy. Go ahead and unbuckle and turn around and hang on to that TV, would ya? If it hits the back door hard enough, it’s going to break through and hit the car behind us.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I whispered to the Hubs.
“Well, the hatch isn’t that strong. It could happen. Don’t worry, Gomer’s got a strong grip on it now.”
“Gomer! Sit down and buckle up. You do not need to hang on to that television. Your father just needs to drive slower and more carefully!”
“Relax!” the Hubs said. “Look, we’re here.” He pulled into the parking lot at the donation center. “Now, you run in and pretend like you’re all alone and you need some help with a television. Just say that your husband is working today and couldn’t help you.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. If I go in there and ask for help, they’re going to think I’m a total pussy. Men shouldn’t ask for help lifting stuff.”
“You asked me to help you.”
“That was different. You already know that I can’t lift heavy stuff. Go on, go ask for help.”
I went into the center and looked around. There were a few employees sorting and tagging items. They were all elderly women. Fuck. I approached the closest one. “Hi, um, yeah, I have a large television that I would like to donate today. It’s in my car and my husband and I could use some help getting it in the store. So…”
The woman looked up from her tagging. “Of course, dear. Thank you so much for your donation. If you pull around to the back of the building and ring the bell, someone will help you.”
“Oh, okay. So, there are other…younger…stronger…people here?”
“Yes, Carlos is in the back. He can help you.”
“Okay, great. Thanks.”
Carlos. That sounded promising. Surely he could at least lift my half and I could just supervise him and the Hubs.
I hopped in the car. “Drive around to the back,” I said. “Carlos will help you.”
We pulled up to the back door. There was a long ramp leading up to the door. The Hubs looked at it and turned a little green. “I hope Carlos can carry his half,” the Hubs said. “I didn’t eat lunch, and that can make a difference, you know.”
I ran up and rang the bell. The door opened and an enormous man filled the doorway. “Hi, um, Carlos?” He nodded. “We have a large TV in the trunk of the car and we need some help getting it out.”
Carlos didn’t say anything; he just walked past me and went to the open trunk of the van. The Hubs was rearranging the blanket under the television. “Hey, Carlos,” the Hubs greeted him. “Yeah, so it’s a bit of a beast. Do you have a dolly or straps maybe that we could use? I didn’t eat lunch…. ”
Carlos looked at the television and rocked up one corner, testing the weight. He nodded, squatted down, and took that shit on his shoulder. “I—I—I can help you,” the Hubs stammered, sort of reaching toward Carlos. Carlos turned and walked up the ramp with the television on his shoulder like it weighed no more than a sack of potatoes.
Carlos returned a minute later with a receipt and a smile. “Thank you,” he said, and returned to the building, leaving my entire family slack-jawed.
“Did you see that, Dad?” Gomer asked.
“Wow,” said Adolpha. “You’re really weak, Daddy.”
“I told you!” the Hubs snapped. “I didn’t have lunch.”
On my first Mother’s Day, I had a six-month-old baby. I was a brand-new mom, and all I wanted was a little recognition. Was that too much to ask? I’d paid my dues: I’d carried a baby. I’d gone through a dramatic pre-term birth where I was forced to have emergency surgery and my baby ended up in the NICU. I spent countless hours on crying jags trying to breast-feed a baby who weighed less than my boob. I finally got him to eat, and then I went out in public smelling like spoiled milk and sporting crusty chunks of spit-up on my shoulder or in my hair at all times. (I’ve never been real concerned with my personal appearance, but believe it or not, I do try harder than this.) I had severe back problems because every time I left the house I carried a baby, a car seat, a giant diaper bag, a stroller, a Baby Bjorn, a breast pump, an insulated pouch to hold my liquid gold, and enough toys, books, and snacks to keep Gomer happy until we could get home again.
I was ready to be honored and pampered that May. When the Hubs saw the first of a bazillion commercials reminding him that the big day was coming, he shrugged and said, “I don’t have to get you anything.”
“Yes you do. I’m a mother now.”
“But you’re not my mother,” he argued.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. You’re Gomer’s mother. Gomer needs to get you a gift.”
“Gomer is a baby! He can’t go and buy me a gift. You have to do it for him.”
“You just need to wait until he’s bigger and then he’ll get you something.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I realize that there are times that the Hubs is a bit of an ass, but this was stunning. “You’re not my father, but I’ll still go and get you a shitty tie or something in June,” I said.
“That’s up to you. I didn’t ask you to do that. I don’t need another tie.”
“I can’t believe you’re going to ruin my first Mother’s Day,” I wailed.
“How am I going to ruin it?” he said. “If you want a gift, go and get yourself a gift. It’s like you said—Gomer’s too little. He won’t know.”
“Don’t you understand that you have to teach Gomer, Hubs? You have to be the one to take him to the store and help him pick out a card for me.”
“He’s a baby!”
“It doesn’t matter. You have to start at some point or else he’ll never learn.”
“Fiiiiiine,” he sighed, “but not this year. He’s too little to understand. It would be a waste.”
“A waste? A waste of what? Your precious time? Money?”
He shrugged. “All of it. This is stupid. I had no idea you were such a consumer. Since when does this stuff even matter to you?”
“It’s my first Mother’s Day, you asshole.” I pouted like a toddler. “It’s my special day.”
“Everything is your special day! Your birthday, Valentine’s Day, Christmas, and now I have to add Mother’s Day to the list?”
“You forgot our anniversary,” I reminded him “That’s a special day, too.”
“You’re being ridiculous, Jen. Mother’s Day isn’t a real holiday.”
“It is! Especially this year. This is my first one. I’m finally a mother.”
“It’s not like you struggled to get pregnant or something,” he complained. “You’re not the only mother in the w
orld. There are millions of mothers. Billions, even.”
“I don’t care!” I cried. “This is the first time I’m a mother! And you’d better get me something nice to show me how much you appreciate me.”
“You’re such a drama queen, Jen. Fine. We need to replace our broken Dustbuster. I’ll get you one of those. I saw one on sale the other day. It was a closeout.”
“I don’t want a Dustbuster for Mother’s Day! And especially not one on clearance!”
“How about a stepstool? I never realized how short you were until we moved into this house. You can’t reach a thing. It’s annoying how much you bug me to put stuff away in all the places you can’t reach. I was thinking of telling you to make a list of what you need because I’ll only reach things for you twice a day, but a stepstool would be a lot easier on the both of us.”
“I don’t want a stepstool!” I yelled. “What is wrong with you?”
We glared at each other. I couldn’t believe we were fighting over my Mother’s Day gift. Why was it so hard for him to understand? I tried a different approach. “What do you normally buy your own mother for Mother’s Day?”
“I don’t know. It changes every year. It depends on what she needs,” he said.
“Okay, well, what did you buy her last year?” I asked.
“Underwear,” he said without hesitating. “I ordered it online and had it shipped to her.”
“Underwear? You bought your mother underwear on the Internet? For Mother’s Day?”
“Yeah. She was complaining that the ones she had were getting holey and starting to fall apart.”
“You bought your mom underwear?” I asked again. I was stunned. I am close to my mom and I’ve bought her several gifts over the years. I usually buy her electronics or scarves or Christmas decorations, but I’ve never bought her underwear—for any occasion.
I knew that the Hubs’ family was really into practical gifts, but I didn’t realize just how practical.
“Underwear?” I said again.
“Yes! That’s what she asked for!” he exclaimed.
I thought about the Hubs sitting at his laptop, scrolling through pages and pages of cotton granny panties, reading the reviews and trying to find the perfect pair for his mother. How did he know what size to buy? How did he know what brand she liked? How did he know if she wanted high-waist or bikini brief? Surely he didn’t buy her thongs, right? I thought about my mother-in-law. Nope, she’s definitely a full-coverage kind of gal.
I couldn’t imagine my son ever buying me underwear, but more important, I couldn’t imagine ever asking him to! The year before the Hubs bought his mother underwear, he’d bought her wool socks and the year before that was a case of ChapStick to combat her chronic dry lips. I suddenly felt sorry for the Hubs. No wonder he didn’t have a clue what to buy me for Mother’s Day. I realized I needed to give him some ideas.
I smiled sweetly and said, “I don’t want a Dustbuster, a stepstool, or underwear for Mother’s Day. I want a special card from Gomer that I can save. Something about it being my first Mother’s Day. Surely Hallmark will have something like that. I want my gift to be something I wouldn’t normally buy myself.”
He sighed. “Okay, I can do the card, but I still don’t understand what gift you want.”
“How about a gift card to somewhere? Like the salon where I get my hair cut? I haven’t had a decent haircut since Gomer’s been born.”
He looked at my six-inch roots and said, “But those appointments take so long. Who will watch the baby while you’re gone?”
I gritted my teeth and tried to be pleasant. “You would, dear. He’s fairly easy now. I could go in the afternoon during nap time.”
“I don’t know. I like your hair the way it is,” he said. I ran my fingers through my tangled, dirty hair and a handful of it fell out.
“Okay, how about a massage? My back is killing me from hauling all that baby gear. I’d love a massage.”
“Ugh.” The Hubs shuddered. “I would never want someone to rub on my body like that. How can you stand that?”
“It doesn’t bother me.”
“Maybe I should give you a massage?” The Hubs waggled his eyebrows at me.
“Now see, that bothers me. It’s so not the same thing,” I said. “I want the kind that doesn’t come with a happy ending.”
“The happy ending is the best part,” the Hubs said.
“Says you. You cannot make my Mother’s Day gift sex. That’s so uncool.”
“This is hard!” the Hubs said.
“No it’s not. Just think pampering,” I said.
“Pampering?” he repeated.
“I’ve been so busy with the baby that I haven’t really had any time to take care of myself. I’d love a gift that helps me do that.”
“Pampering,” he muttered. “Take care of yourself.”
“Maybe a day to myself? I’d love some alone time.”
Suddenly a big smile came across his face. “I got it!” he said. “This is perfect!”
When Mother’s Day rolled around, I was presented with a flat, square box and a card. I opened the card. It was a beauty. I’ll give the Hubs this—he has a hard time being romantic, but he can pick out cards that make me cry every single time. I wiped my tears away and gave him a big kiss. “Thank you,” I whispered. “This was perfect.”
“Wait until you open your present,” he said, bobbing up and down with excitement.
I tore off the wrapping paper to reveal a box that held a scale.
Let me repeat that. He gave me a scale. For Mother’s Day.
“A scale?” The room was turning red. I was furious.
“Not just any scale!” the Hubs crowed. “This is a digital scale. It will tell you your weight to the quarter pound, and your body fat percentage.”
I’m sorry, I was wrong. He bought me a digital scale. For Mother’s Day.
“A digital scale?” I asked again. I was furious, but the Hubs didn’t notice.
“Yeah! You said you wanted something that pampers you and helps you take care of yourself and that you’d never buy. A scale can do that for you. And this one is top of the line—you never would have bought one this nice for yourself. All kinds of spas use this kind of scale. It’s like having a spa in your own bathroom. Happy Mother’s Day!”
No, no, no, no! I wanted to scream at the Hubs. You can’t give me a scale for Mother’s Day. I didn’t want a Dustbuster or a stepstool, but either of those would have been better than a scale!
After that first year, I always bought myself my own Mother’s Day gift. Because nothing says “Happy Mother’s Day, heifer” like a digital top-of-the-fucking-line scale!
It was the day before Easter when I got the text message from my friend Lavinia:
HE KNOWS! her message screamed in all caps.
I knew immediately what she was talking about. “He” could only be Lavinia’s son, Clifford. Lavinia is a self-proclaimed overachiever, and she’s proud of it. She’s done everything she could to make her only child’s upbringing magical and amazing, but now, after nine years, Clifford was on to her.
I replied: How do you know? Are you sure he knows?
Gomer was nine now, and just that past Christmas he had been questioning the veracity of a man traveling around the world in one night with tiny flying reindeer. We’d managed to divert Gomer with the old “If you don’t believe, he won’t come” speech. It worked at the time, but who knew how much longer we had? Gomer and Clifford were getting older, and soon they’d guess the secret. I figured Clifford must have questioned the idea of a six-foot-tall bunny crawling through his window, and that sent Lavinia into a tizzy. I was ready to calm her down and reassure her that Clifford was just testing the waters, and then she wrote:
HE FOUND THE EASTER BUNNY’S STASH.
The stash? What did she mean by that? I was confused by her statement. Lavinia sets a much higher magical bar than I do, and sometimes I have a hard time following along when she’s
talking about her holiday prepping.
Me: What do you mean he found the stash?
Lavinia: The stash! Everything. The baskets, the grass, the candy, and all of the toys I bought for his basket.
Me: Ohhhh. That stash. Yeah, that changes everything.
Lavinia: Have your kids ever found your stash?
Me: No. Mostly because I don’t have a stash. I never hide the baskets. My kids know they sit in the pantry on the shelf and then tonight I’ll put them out when the kids go to bed and the Easter Bunny fills them with candy—mostly leftover stuff. We’ve been giving the same big chocolate bunnies for the past three years now because I think they’re too big to eat so I just keep recycling them. I buy a few little toys that I’ve got to dig out of the trunk of the car or the back of my closet if I can remember where I stuck them and some new jellybeans every year and that’s about it.
Lavinia: Don’t they notice the chocolate bunnies are the same?
Me: Probably. I don’t know. Maybe not? They’re not really that bright when it comes to this kind of stuff. I put the bunnies in the cupboard and they don’t ask about them again. They think the Easter Bunny shops at Target and that Target stocks the same chocolate bunnies year after year.
Lavinia: Well, Clifford is really sad and confused.
Me: What did you say to him when he found the stash?
Lavinia: Nothing. I just diverted his attention, but he saw his basket and the grass and all the toys for his basket. He asked me why they were in the closet. I told him that sometimes I store things for the Easter Bunny because he can’t carry it all. Then Newman took him out for frozen yogurt so I could move it all to a new, more secure location. But it’s too late. It’s all ruined! He knows. I know he knows. He’s figured it out. It’s over!
At this point, I didn’t know what to say. I like Lavinia a lot, but I couldn’t relate. I’m not that big on the magic at my house. Sure, we do Santa and the Tooth Fairy and that sort of thing, but our magic is really lame compared to Lavinia’s. I’ve never had our Elf on the Shelf bring gifts. I’ve never stenciled little green leprechaun footprints on the floor. I’ve never dropped a glitter bomb and twenty bucks for a first tooth. We’re pretty basic around our house. My kids have fairly low expectations, so the idea of blowing my kids’ idyllic childhood with a hidden stash of goodies wasn’t anything I could understand.