I’m not such a good sport about Mother’s Day. I admit it. I send cards. I make a couple phone calls, but all in all I’d rather the day just pass right by. Despite being a mother myself, or maybe even more because of it, Mother’s Day is a day that points out the absence of my mom.

My brother, G, called from Georgia earlier in the weekend to ask what my plans were for the day. Truth was, I had no plans. LM was at his dad’s and despite my ability to have him home with me, I didn’t see the point. Any celebration for the day would be instigated by me. Any meal cooked or eaten out would be prepared or paid for by me. Any shopping for gifts would be done by me. Any activities at all that we wished to do, I would have to drive, plan, feed, decide and execute. You’ll forgive me for taking a raincheck on the whole celebration. A low-key, quiet day at home alone seemed like a better option.

Today, just a short while ago, I went to pick up LM for his ortho appointment. He came running out of his classroom with his lunch and money in his hand. He says, “We’re going to Olive Garden tonight!” Caught completely off guard, I said, “What? Says who?” He said, “I do!” I said, “Okay, who’s paying for dinner out?!” He said, “I am!” I said, “You don’t have money to spend on dinner!” He smiled a knowing smile and said, “Uncle G sent it to me so I could take you out to dinner for Mother’s Day!”

G had not only conjured up this plan with LM but had gone so far as to call my sister to get my ex husband’s phone number to get J to give LM the money (while G sends a check to reimburse him) so LM could take me to dinner tonight.

Thanks, G. You made my Mother’s Day special. Mom would be so proud.

Looking across the living room at the beige tint to the carpet I realized an important fact: my carpets used to be blue. These very same carpets had been vacuumed and steam cleaned a week ago now resembled the sandy beaches of the jersey shore more than my living room. One vacuum bag full of fur and dirt, three thorough cleanings with the steam cleaner and dirt is still coming out of the carpet.

The bark park is henceforth off limits.

He came out of his room in khaki’s and a red plaid short-sleeved button down.

“Do I look okay, Mom?”

“LM, you have never ever asked me that before.”

“Mom, I have never played in front of a room full of adults before.”

I have played in band concerts from fifth grade through high school. This was my first time to be the parent. My little fourth-grade trumpet player smiled when he saw us in the audience. He waved before they started playing. He mouthed the words, “this is my favorite song” before “Resolution”. He smiled when I gave him a thumbs up. Later, when the band was done and we watched LM’s bestest friend, W, sing in the chorus, LM pointed out the girl that W likes. He smiled and gave W the thumbs-up sign. W got the giggles.

Afterwards I went over to say “hi” to W’s parents. They laughed at how close W and LM are. We took pictures of the two of them together. LM told W he “totally ROCKED!” W just laughed.

Keeping up with a tradition my dad started, “every good band concert deserves DQ ice cream” we headed off for blizzards. Not missing a moment to extend my list of compliments on the evening’s concert, LM and I decided the best adjective for the event was “galactic”. (In sci-fi terms, I guess that means “incredible!”)

Before heading to bed, I reiterated how wonderful the concert was, how proud I was of my little trumpeter and how great he sounded tonight. LM gave me a hug and said, “thanks for being such a great support, Mom.”

Thanks for making me so proud, LM. I will never forget tonight.

And thus begins the slow but continuous drain on my bank account that will only in a very small way prepare me for the quick and thorough drain that I like to call “college”. LM officially had his first orthodontics appointment this morning. They start out small, tiny little spacers in his molars to make room for the metal rings they’ll install on Monday. Within two weeks, LM will officially proclaim me The Meanest Mother on Earth when the inevitable torturous expanders are put in place.

To summarize, I chose Orthodontist #1. To be honest, I had no clue how to choose between the two. It was like comparing apples to a VW beetle. In order to choose what I felt was the best “method” I would have had to have been an orthodontist. This idea was dismissed only when I realized that med school will in fact cost more than this procedure, if only by $1.99. I chose instead based on how the doc reached his verdict on his preferred method. Doc #1 took molds and x-rays, took them home with him and spent time looking at them. He drew very mathematical looking lines and figures and angles on them and then discussed his overall thoughts in a half hour consultation. Doc #2 looked at the x-rays and molds that Doc #1 had taken, looked into LM’s mouth for a few moments, wrote a few things down and asked both of us what was our overall goal for orthodontics (straight teeth? Isn’t that the right answer?!) He didn’t draw anything mathematical, although Doc #2 did have a clever computer program that showed us visualizations of what was amok in LM’s mouth. So, due to the perception that Doc #1 put actual time and energy into his plan I chose him. Well that and he costs perhaps $800 less. There is that. And Doc #2 kept us waiting for over a half hour for our consultation. There is that, too.

LM has been in the loop from the get-go. He is well aware of what the process will entail and exactly what will happen at each appointment. He knows that May 31st is going to be a very.bad.day.indeed and that for the next 3-5 days after that he will want to strangle me in my sleep. He has also been made aware that this is costing me my left arm and an unborn child to be determined at a later date and that if he does not wear his retainer after all is said and done I will indeed strangle HIM in his sleep. I think we’ve reached an agreement.

I have also kept the ex apprised of all options and decisions. While he hasn’t offered any worthwhile input and certainly I shouldn’t have expected (nor did I receive) any sort of opinion from his camp he did declare himself in “sticker shock” still yet today and wasn’t sure how he would come up with his share of the down payment due on the 31st. Considering this portion is the cheaper of the two processes LM will go through (the actual braces could total three times what these expanders are costing us) I didn’t realize this would be such a problem. I offered to cover the down payment and he offered to then cover the monthly charges. His part will come out to being more than mine (which he knows) so I readily agreed. I hope that this is not an indicator of how ill-prepared he will be for college expenses when that time comes, but I should begin to brace myself for that eventual reality I’m sure.

For now, wish us straight teeth in record time and pray to the Tylenol gods that LM doesn’t have to suffer much. If you think about it, remind me on the 31st that I do this out of love for LM and his beautiful smile as I’m sure I’ll be feeling extremely bad about the pain I’m causing him. I am, after all, the one responsible for turning the expanders each night and causing him great pain. Maybe we should have gone with the Volkswagen.

Shhh…the red sox are playing the Yankees. They crushed them last night, I’m hoping for a similar game tonight. Even better, Chris Berman is announcing the game!! Ahhh…Amazing Race and Lost are just going to have to wait until the game is over.

From where I sat on the park bench under the old oak tree, she was stunning. Taller than I am and half the size she stood with her legs crossed one over the other in a perfect sense of balance and poise. She smiled and laughed, comfortably talking with the strangers around her. Nothing artificial about her looks, she was an advertisement for natural beauty. Hair pulled back in a rough pony tail, little make-up, an old beige corduroy fitted jacket over jeans. Nothing external could claim ownership of the elegance and grace she exuded. She asked a question with genuine interest and listened with intent at the reply. When she called to her husband, pulling him away from the group he was talking with, he came over and shared a laugh at something only they understood. He touched her arm before walking away.

I wonder, when she closes her eyes at night, what do her demons say?

Last night after getting LM off to bed, I turned on a Comedy Central special with Bill Engvall that I had DVR’ed over the weekend. (If you don’t recognize the name, he’s the guy on the Blue Collar Comedy Tour that does the “Here’s Your Sign” skits.) 45 minutes into the show I hit pause to make a bathroom run, still chuckling over Bill’s jokes about understanding women, topless steakhouses and his son’s first “hands-on” exam by a doctor when I hear laughter rolling out of LM’s room.

“I thought you were asleep!!”

“Oh my gosh, Mom, that is some funny stuff!!”

Again, in case you missed it the first time, my mail can be forwarded to “Amy, c/o The Devil Himself, Burning Hell, 66666.”

I am in such a sour mood today. I just honestly do not want to be the grown-up right now. I do not want to be at work today. I hate that because of LM’s troubles at school and an ortho appointment last week, I have to work four extra hours this week. I hate that I had to wash the dog, the car and the carpets this weekend. That it costs me more to hand-wash the car than it does to run it through the automatic because I don’t have a “system” for it. I hate that having done all three, Gabe chose to roll in the dirt at the bark park nullifying all efforts. I hate that as much as I love the bark park and how much it helps our leash-issues, I seem to only meet married couples there. I hate that while trying to get the dirt off of Gabe before getting in the car, he took off after a husky and ripped half of my thumb nail nearly off. I hate that it is all black and gross looking and still hurts today. I hate that I spent half a day on Saturday testing out vacuum cleaners and I still don’t know if I should have spent the extra money to ensure the ultimate in sucking-power or not. I hate that I had to put new tires on my car – that always feels like money that went nowhere. I hate that out of all the fun LM had at his birthday party and all the giggles and laughs that came from the three boys during the evening that what I noticed most was how bossy my son can be. I hate that due to circumstances with my ex husband I have obsessed in my own mind the last two days about a comment one of the boys made to LM, referring to his hug as “gay”. I hate that I even have to give that a single thought. I hate that I think about it for LM’s sake. I hate that in an effort to have a birthday cake that my son would actually enjoy (he hates regular icing) I bought him a $25 ice cream cake from Cold Stone Creamery with his favorite flavor of ice cream and he decided he really doesn’t like that either. I hate that my neighbor’s alarm went off at 4:30 on Sunday morning and woke me up. I hate that I woke up this morning to her school-day yells to get her son out of bed. I hate that after getting the second ortho opinion requested by my ex husband he is absolutely void of opinion on how to proceed and is offering little help deciding the best option. I hate that after working hard to lose ten pounds I gained five back by eating two pieces of pizza and one piece of birthday cake this weekend. I hate that I’m going to have to transfer money out of savings to balance the checkbook this week. I hate that as a nation we seem to be more interested in what Tom Cruise is up to than what is going on in Iraq.

I’ll try to feel the love tomorrow.

Fact:

In order to offer the Kenmore Progressive vacuum “on sale” 365 days a year, Sears manufactures two exact replicas of each make and model of their Kenmore line. The sale then alternates between the two models, legalizing the use of the word “sale price”. The only difference in the two models? One has a two-foot longer cord than the other.

Seriously.

Don’t blame Sears for this ridiculous practice, we, as consumers, have dictated the need for everything to appear to be “on sale” before we are willing to purchase it. They have just catered to that demand.

P.S. I will let you know how I feel about the new vacuum purchase shortly. The change of command ceremony that will officially retire the old Hoover will be held this afternoon.

Despite my love (Adoration? Obsession?) with margaritas, I have never truly celebrated Cinco de Mayo properly. I came cleverly close one year when I went to Houston to visit my friend, Suzan. Being in Texas for a Mexican holiday was as close as I was going to get for an “authentic celebration” it would seem.

We went out to dinner that night and had all the necessary Mexican favorites. There were chips, salsa, tequila and a lot of food that took cheese, beans, some sort of sauce and rolled, mixed, fried, or otherwise stuffed them into a tortilla.

The most interesting part of the evening, however was the couple sitting at the next table. Suzan and I were playing that ever-popular game where you try to create the “story” of other people around you. Trouble was, while we were having so much fun inventing reasons for why this particular couple were out together, whether it was a first date or they were steady partners, the girl started to cry. She really tried to hide it and certainly didn’t make any sort of a scene, but we could tell that something had seriously upset her. The man with her tried to reach out and hold her hand, but she pulled away and wanted nothing to do with him. He looked around furtively, trying to see how many eyes were on their table, but no one else took pause enough to noticed. The waiter brought their order to the table and girl wouldn’t even up. The man finally just asked the waiter to box it up to go.

That night I wanted to leave my celebratory mood and hug a stranger. I could feel how hurt she was and how badly she just wanted to escape the moment she was in. I thought for certain this was not a night she would soon forget, either. Whatever had upset her seemed to do so on a level that no simple apology would heal. I truly felt guilty for having so much fun myself. It didn’t seem fair that anyone should be that upset in the midst of a drunken party atmosphere.

Every now and then, when I’m at a restaurant playing that game, I still think about her. I’m sure in the five or more years that have passed, she is long over whatever upset her that night. I hope tonight she is celebrating Cinco de Mayo with laughter instead of tears.