I guess I'm finally a grown-up type person. And yes, I've been over the age of eighteen for the past fifteen years, but I think I just got it this past weekend.
For this weekend was Mother's Day. I don't get really hung up on having a special day just for me, although the people I live with did make a supreme effort to make sure I had a nice day (I even went to lunch at a Mexican restaurant. With my husband. Who hates Mexican food. Because he's a freak). To me, though, it's really just another day. I still did laundry, I still worked, and I still did my usual mom things like listening to Boy Child describe, in excruciating detail, a snake he'd seen once. It was riveting. While walking (for almost two hours...go me!), I also dodged some Canadian Geese and their disgusting poop. They? Can suck a bag of dicks. But that's another story for another day.
I was proud of my husband. Not because he went and had Mexican food with me and not because he bought me these beautiful plants for my porch and not because he was sweet and loving and kind and said and did all the right things. But instead because he sent his mom a card. Then? He called her.
He's trying. He's extraordinarily stubborn and holds onto things for a long time (and I'll reserve judgement as to whether or not it's a good idea to hold a grudge sometimes), but he's trying.
And even though it was Mother's Day, it wasn't all about me. I didn't want or need it to be.
I still don't think I'm going to gain a bff, but I hope it was a good day for all involved.