Go Ahead, Make my Mutha's Day

For years, my kids have treated me to breakfast in bed for Mother's Day. It's always been pretty interesting to see what I might get. I've had cereal with the milk poured on it a good 15 minutes before it was ever brought to me, burnt toast, and giant glasses of OJ that look like a super sized big gulp container. One year I was blessed with a fermented chocolate covered strawberry (Diana had bought it 3 or 4 days ahead of time and hid it in her room, rather than the fridge, so I would be surprised...I was, but not in the way intended.). Along with the fermented berry was a massive plate of scrambled eggs garnished with a wilted piece of basil. I know all the meals are presented with love and to the best efforts of the progeny so I receive them as such. The strawberry/basil year had to be one of my favorites for the humor factor though. It's a fond memory of food gone wrong.

This year I was given a scrambled egg, sausage, biscuits and OJ with a silk rose (which Calypso informed me needed to be returned to her room upon completion of breakfast). Diana did the eggs and sausage. Calypso did the biscuits, and Isaac wanted to make sure I knew he poured the OJ. It was all very yummy.

After I finished waking up and got a shower they were anxious to present me with the gifts. First was a card with a schedule of times for the local pistol range...and a box containing a 9mm handgun. How heartwarming is it to look into the faces of my family as the punks and their father give their mama firearms to commemorate her years of devotion? I laughed most heartily at the irony of it. I felt lucky. And I must say, it sets off my French manicure nicely, don't you think?

After I holstered my piece they led me out to a second gift. If you recall, my 20 year old hand mixer died a couple months ago during Pi Day celebrations. Three years ago when I demolished my arm I asked for a particular appliance to facilitate my baking mania. Upon the demise of my hand mixer my hints became exponentially more pronounced and far less subtle. They progressed from, "The hand mixer is dead, long live the Kitchenaid." to "I will not be purchasing a new mixer unless it's a Kitchenaid. Baking of birthday cakes will be suspended until such time as I have the proper tools to do so."
Being as brilliant as they are, my family caught my drift and the punks and their father made my day.

Here's my new baby.

The girls made a dinner of spaghetti and meatballs, with salad and garlic bread and chocolate cake for dessert. We all watched episodes of Monty Python's Flying Circus after dinner. It was a good day and I am grateful to my family for the love they gave, more than any material thing.