Fat Lips, Mimi's Cafe, Clint Eastwood and Lucy Liu

Ah Mother's Day, the one day a year in which it is socially sanctioned for we maternal units to cast aside our shroud of martyrdom and demand that those we love most in the world worship us for the poop cleaning, booger wiping, tear dabbing, wound cleaning, food prepping, car pooling, schedule keeping, non sleeping, etc that we all do on the regular.

This worship can come in many forms; flowers, some form of edible delivered to us in bed and macaroni necklaces ranking amongst the highest, but really the reward one enjoys most for their efforts is unique to each mom. I, for one, am a fan of brunch. I have virtually no idea what it is about it that makes me love it so, I mean really, it's just a late breakfast, but everything about it makes me happy. From the sparkling mimosas in their long, flutey glasses to the crispy bacon and crunchy potatoes to the satisfying way the word just pours from one's mouth (brrr-uuun-cccchhhh. Say it slowly. It's super fun.) I find myself dreaming of Mother's Day brunch the moment that the calendar rolls into May.

So it should then help to paint the picture of how my Mother's Day went when I tell you that my husband was on shift (he's a firefighter), which left me all by my lonesome with two toddlers. What does one do when they find themselves in need of some Mother's Day lovin' and the person who is supposed to orchestrate it is tasked with saving lives that day like a selfish asshole? You horn in on your sister's Mother's Day plans and get yourself invited to her place.

It was a lovely affair. Her husband put out a huge spread, they provided everyone's favorite donuts and all of the moms got to eat on fancy glass plates while the rest of the dirty masses got paper ones. I felt truly pampered and worthy of the honor of Mother. Then my daughter fell off of a barstool and cracked her face on the tile, which signaled that it was time for us to depart.

(I assure you, she is fine.)

Then it was on to the Mother's Day Ice Cream Social that my husband's captain decided to throw for us ladies at the firehouse. This was very sweet and I am very grateful to him for thinking of us. Having said that, it usually works better to have everyone down to the station when you aren't among the three busiest stations in the city. We got a lot of great action images of our guys running to the truck as the emergency tones deafened everyone, but they had gotten us ice cream for the occasion and we all felt very sincerely appreciated. Thank you guys!

(When the captain ain't around, the rookies get the recliners.)

I went to bed that night pretty tired and looking forward to my husband coming home the next day so we could get down to the business of what I have heretofore entitled "Second Mother's Day." This was going to be the real deal, the type of celebrating and pampering that I was watching people post about on Facebook all day. 

Except, I learned upon waking up that he was going to be delayed in getting home by a couple of hours. Panic welled up within me. Any rational person would realize that he would be along soon, would give the kids a toaster waffle or some equally substance-less snack and patiently await his arrival so that everyone could sojourn to the long awaited brunch together in due time. But what has two thumbs and isn't rational? Well, yeah Jodi Arias is correct, but I was actually referring to myself here.

So I loaded the kids up and headed off to Mimi's Cafe because, damn it, I was getting an omelet, bacon, breakfast potatoes and a piping hot cup of coffee that I didn't have to brew myself and I didn't care what I had to do to get it. Which included actually eating at Mimi's Cafe.

The fact that the hostess put me and my kids in a booth directly adjacent to one occupied by a single, glaring man in work boots in the midst of an otherwise completely empty section of the silent restaurant had bells of doom gonging in my mind. I mean, there was no one there but this guy and us. It was Mimi's Cafe at 7:45 a.m. on the Monday morning directly following Mother's Day, the place practically had tumbleweeds blowing through it and this guy was giving us his meanest Clint Eastwood glare. Naturally, the best place for us should be immediately beside him.

(Yes, we are punks. No, we do not feel lucky.)

Still, I tried to be positive. I mean, I brought legos, that should be enough to keep the kids pacified until our meals come, right? They kept it together as drinks were ordered, happily played with their blocks as the coffee came out and smiled genially as I ordered the food for, you see, they know that in order to achieve an advanced level of evil they must wait until orders have been placed to lose their shit and start throwing lego hail mary passes across the dinning room. I got up to retrieve the blocks, returned to chew my daughter's ass for throwing them and was stopped short by the sight of my 2-year-old running with his cheetah legs straight for the kitchen. I burst into a run after him, catching his shirt just in time to keep him from getting to the food prep tables, but not before he'd roused the attention of the entire kitchen staff who were staring at the tiny interloper and me with looks that said, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

I got him back to the seat and proceeded to start packing up the legos as a consequence for throwing them, at which point my daughter emitted a shriek so high pitched and so shrill that I'm not entirely convinced it wasn't a signal to her dolphin people that she was in danger and to assemble post haste. This was the last straw for The Outlaw Josey Wales next to us. At least I'm taking his decision to slam his hands angrily down on his table and leave the restaurant mid french toast with no tip on the table as such.

I can now officially say that the behavior of my children has driven strangers to vacate public areas. It was now just me, my kids and my staggering inability to keep my kids under control left in the restaurant and I burst into tears. I still can't conceive of many things that are more pathetic than a grown woman wearing a shirt with a jelly donut on it having a pity party at a Mimi's Cafe but if you can think of some I'd seriously love to hear them. 

(I'm not kidding, this is the shirt. It depicts a jelly donut murder, and I was sobbing in it.)

I pulled my shit together in time for the food to come, shoved it down my gullet as quickly as possible, ran after my son one more time as he bolted behind the bar (he didn't even have the common decency to make me a fucking bloody mary while he was back there) and then left, fending off the offers of help from two well meaning employees who were obviously so moved by my lack of parental abilities that they felt compelled to lend a hand in bringing the ineptitude to a stop. 

It was a quiet ride home. Maybe, I thought, it was on the fitting side that Mother's Day would come and go with no fanfare directed my way. I clearly suck at this. In 24 hours my daughter had sustained a bloody facial injury, I'd lost my 2-year-old twice in a restaurant and driven a guy from the premises with my lack of leadership ability. Maybe I should work a little on my technique before I start expecting any gold medals here.

My husband arrived home mere moments after I did with a huge Dutch Bros coffee in his hand for me and a card telling me how wonderful I was. He added a post script to the bottom that read "Get ready to go shopping..." and clarified upon my questioning gaze that he wanted to take me to "Lucy Liu Lu Lu Diamonds, Whatever" for Mother's Day.

The rest of the conversation went like this:

Me: What in the hell is Lucy Liu Lu Lu Diamonds?
Him: That workout clothes store you like.
Me: You mean Lululemon?
Him: Sure, yeah, that place.
Me: A guy at Mimi's Cafe slammed his hands down on the table and left mid breakfast this morning because the kids were acting up and I started sobbing in public.
Him: (Scowling) Fuck that guy, he should have eaten in his kitchen if he didn't want to be around people.

And so, I have to say, my Mother's Day turned out relatively awesome in the end. The Mimi's story has gotten a little humorous with the benefit of time and I scored some new workout clothes to wear at Zumba, an activity that I will dedicate my next post to as it is a shit show so incredible as to not be ignored.

Now that a week has passed, the dust has settled and some perspective may or may not have been gleaned, if you'd care to share your Mother's Day stories, I'd love to hear them. The Good, the Bad and even the Ugly.