My husband and I have sunk to a new low in marital gifting. Today he gave me a Mother’s Day card that I bought myself.
It was all perfectly logical and explainable, but still.
Saturday is usually Bob’s day to catch up on sleep, go out to lunch and get groceries. When I say that’s Bob’s day, I mean that’s his whole day. Because he has Parkinson’s, it takes him a long time to do everything. He was always slow, so it took a while for us to realize that something was wrong, rather than that he was just slowing down – even more – due to age. He’s kind of like a wind-up toy at the end of its wind.
Ordinarily, I don’t accompany Bob on his Saturday trek, because then it would be my whole day. He has the same routine. (That’s not from Parkinson’s – he’s always been a routine-kind-of-guy.) He goes to Artie & Toni’s Steakhouse, where the “girls” all know him by name and bring his order – steak cooked medium, baked potato, salad with Arti’s special dressing – without asking what he wants.
They cut his steak into two pieces, cooking half at a time, because he eats so slowly that the second half would be stone cold if they cooked it all at once. It takes him two hours to eat it, literally, one tiny bite at a time, chewing it to a pulp like they told us all to do in health class, but which most of us don’t do unless you have a choking problem as he does.
Yesterday we were together because we had been to a funeral earlier. I was prepared for the long meal, but as it turned out, there was a large party celebrating Mother’s Day early, and it took an unusually long time to get served. By the time I had finished my grilled chicken salad, Bob was only half way through his first half, and I was getting antsy. It had already been more than an hour.
I asked Bob if he would mind if I ran out to pick up my mom a Mother’s Day card – which would be late because I have to mail it – down the street while he finished.
“Sure, go ahead. Pick one up for me, too.” His mother died 10 years ago, so I would be the only recipient of a Mother’s Day card from him.
“Well, I could do that, or I could just read them in the store and leave them there,” I said. “Save the money.”
“Nah, you’re worth it,” he said, grinning. “Go ahead and buy it.”
“Should I buy myself a gift, too?” It wouldn’t be the first time I’d bought my own gift and brought him the receipt, but I’d never bought my own card.
I used to get disgusted with my parents when I was a young girl because they would never buy gifts for each other at Christmas and birthdays. I wanted them to be romantic like on TV and buy each other jewelry and aftershave. Instead, my dad would buy snow tires or have half a hog butchered for the freezer, and say, “There’s your Christmas, Honey.”
“Sure, Honey," Bob said. "Go ahead and get yourself a gift if you want one.”
“How much should I spend?”
“Well, don’t go overboard.”
“But nothing’s too good for me, right?”
“You got it, Babe.”
I drove to the nearby strip shopping center where I recalled a card store was located, but when I got there, I remembered that it had gone out of business a couple of years ago. The only option was a Food Lion.
I picked out a card for my mom – a nice big flowery one with a real ribbon bow on it. The kind of card Mother’s Day was invented for.
Then I searched for an appropriate card for Bob to give to me. There were two choices for husbands – another big flowery one with a sweetie-pie verse – not a good fit – and a little booklet with two doggies holding hands on the front that details all the faults of the daddy doggie, but on the last page, has the big payoff. “But Honey, though I have my faults you must admit I shine, when it comes to loving that terrific wife of mine! Happy Mother’s Day!”
Ah! Just the right sentiment! And the most expensive choice at $4.99. Perfect!
I picked up a couple of other items and headed back to the parking lot, but I knew Bob would still be chewing on the steak and there was more time to kill. So feeling kicky and spontaneous, I decided to take a whirl through the Family Dollar Store next door.
I found some plastic storage containers I liked and threw them into the basket, then I saw a display of cheap toilet seats. The upstairs bathroom needed a new one, so I tossed it in, too. By the time I got back to the restaurant, Bob was eating his last two bites of steak.
“Did you get what you went after?”
“Yep. Here’s your card. You have great taste.”
“Did you really buy it?” He was only a little surprised -- he knows me too well.
“Wow, I couldn’t have said it better myself,” he said, thumbing through the booklet-card. “And expensive, too.”
“You know what they say about ‘when you care enough to send the very best.’ Bought myself a gift, too. A toilet seat.”
“Good for you! Are you sure fit will fit?”
“It crossed my mind to squat over it in Family Dollar to check, but I thought better of it.”
“Not your butt, Dear, the toilet,” he said. “The cheap ones are usually too small.” But we were delighted to find that it fit just fine when we got home.
I had a lovely but quiet Mother's Day. Two of my sons called and the third came by to pick up his daughter who had spent the night. Bob got ready to leave for the weekly grocery trip this afternoon because his usual schedule yesterday was altered.
“Oh! I almost forgot to sign your card!” He shuffled back upstairs to get it and brought it back ten minutes later.
“Wow, Honey. I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble,” I gushed, opening the envelope. He had written little notations on each page, listing his “faults” underneath the silly verse. Things he forgets to do, such as “flushing,” and his propensity for giving backhanded compliments like “for a fat girl, you sure don’t sweat much.”
“It’s … it’s so beautiful,” I say. Sniff. “You really have a way with words.”
And I realize, the circle is complete. We have become my parents. But it's OK. Most of the time.
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