I got my Mother's Day gift last night. We have the hit-and-run UPS guy who rings the doorbell and flees like he's left smoldering dog doo on your doorstep instead of a present. He tears out of our cul-de-sac at breakneck speeds, which is hard to do in one of those rumbly brown trucks.
Anyhow, the doorbell rings and Paranoid Delivery Man is already a blur by the time I answer the door to find a briefcase-sized box waiting for me. Inside was a motorized massaging seat topper, which is a fancy way of saying one of those mats you stick over your chair that tickles and vibrates from your shoulders down to your hoochie and up again. I was impressed. I was amazed. I had lustful thoughts while trying it out this morning.
If I'd had one of these plus my shower massager before I met Plosh, I might never have felt the need to marry.
Oh, okay, not true. He's a wonderfully sweet guy, and not just when your son has a dribbly, snotty cold and you nearly drown him in the pool and you're thinking you're the lamest mother ever and even the UPS guy doesn't want anything to do with you.
But this raises the stakes for Father's Day, you understand. More on this later, as soon as I think of something.
The monsterling is sick today with some sort of tummy flu. He clung to his Daddy all night when not tossing and fussing, yet somehow the DH was more coherent than his wife this morning. I stumbled around mumbling and bumping into things. Plosh got everyone up, packed his lunch, ironed his shirt, negotiated with the contractor fixing our fence and drove off to work. I am still struggling to speak in complete sentences. 
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