That’s Our House. Or as John Mulaney says, that’s the bank’s house, but they let us keep our stuff there. Despite this bit of technicality, that is Our House, and I love it. I loved it from the first time I stepped foot in it. Which according to John, my John, was part of the problem.
If you’ve tuned in to holly loves john before you have probably seen this picture of me. Pouting lip, hospital gown, oxygen tube under my nostrils. It’s one of several hospital stays I have had under my belt since I’ve had my son.
I would not say I was the paragon of health before I got pregnant. But it’s fair to say that the last time I wore a hospital garment it was a swaddling clothe in 1985.
Like I said, I spend most days psyching myself up to do the dishes. Some more than others. This is gonna take a while.
So my Mother’s Day gardening was a bit of a bust.
(For those that didn’t read my endearing Mother’s Day post I had a whole thing on how stay-at-home moms never get a break, and so Mother’s Day was our only work holiday. And with my work holiday I was going to spend the whole day gardening. No Nemo, no diapers, just gardening. Then I gave a nice tribute to my own mom, cause that’s what you do when you’re a writer on Mother’s day. Unless you have a bad relationship with your mother then you probably write some bad poetry.)
But like I said, the gardening was a bit of a bust…
Today is Mother’s Day and I am stoked! When you become a stay-at-home Mom (hyphens and everything) you realize that you literally have no days off. Those hyphens are there because the job NEVER ENDS. No one tells you this, but it’s true. Never Ends. You really only have the one day off. Mother’s day, that’s my work holiday. My bank is closed, the day is mine.
(John just came in asking me to change the baby and make him a smoothie, the baby, not John. John doesn’t drink smoothies unless you count the times the Little Prince flings it at him and he wipes it off his arm with his tongue. Anyway, I shouted “WORK HOLIDAY! The bank is closed!” and threatened to shiv him with my rigidly pointed finger. He looked at me like I was crazy. (I am, but that’s not the point.) I still made the smoothie but only after John agreed to the legitimacy of my work holiday. Some husbands make their wives breakfast in bed for Mother’s Day. My husband tried to foist the eight hours I spent driving back and forth across the state to see his mother as my Mother’s day gift because it was my idea. Nice try, lawyer. Not gonna happen.)
My plan is to garden. Spend as long as I want, outside with my audiobook headphones on. It’s gonna be bliss. Hot, sweaty, composting bliss.
But first I want to tell you about my Mom.