Thanksgiving in May

Now I usually don’t go in much for writing about personal stuff. I find it weak when a man does that (I’ve thrown pups out of the pack for less), and worse, if you’re not extra-careful, it’s boring.

In spite of my misgivings, though, I’m about to cross the invisible line between what’s my business and what’s your business, and on the other side of that line – well, I’m just not very comfortable over there. You have been warned.

This is The Missus’s first Mother’s Day as a Mom, and of all things to do to her, I drag everybody but the dog to a Bastardson family reunion in Escroto del Diablo, Arizona. This is how I honor the mother of my child, by returning her to the second least favorite place she’s ever been to (New Mexico – the entire state – being number one on that list).

Can you blame me for having low self-esteem?

Since we already can’t afford the trip, I book us into the nicest place in town. I’ve checked it out on a previous (solo) trip and it’s a swanky dump. Air-conditioning, internet, the whole nine yards. Yes, it’s on the outskirts of a depressing hellhole, but it is an oasis of upper-class snobbery catering to the kind of well-heeled swells that we’ll only ever be able to aspire to being. For instance, it has its own golf course. Three of them, actually. Swank, huh?

But this wasn’t supposed to be a hotel review. This is supposed to be a paean to motherhood in general, and to my lovely Missus in particular.

She’s always been a great wife. Confidante, friend, lover and as often as not, psychological caretaker. I am not kidding you when I tell you that living with me is no walk in the park on a spring day in May. She knew what she was getting into and took the plunge anyhow.

If that was all she ever did for me, it would have been way much more than I deserved.

Ever since we got us a critter of our own, however, she has taken her game to a whole ‘nother level. Where she used to amaze me, just watching her work – half a dozen streams of different output flowing from her simultaneously – she now does all that while managing to be a much better mother than I struggle to be a father. She makes it seem like the magic it’s supposed to be.

She makes it seem like music.

Motherhood pours out of her. It’s like some third arm she uses like it’s been part of her her whole life, instead of something that dropped into the middle of our lives like an atom bomb last year.

And since it’s Mother’s Day and I want to keep this upbeat (eyes on the prize, Fang), we won’t even mention the fact that for the past few months of fatherhood in particular, I’ve been such a short-tempered, irritable prick she’s had two infants on her hands to contend with. Not even gonna bring it up because this is about her, not me.

And that’s the thing. I know as well as anybody can how hard it is, what she’s doing. Because I’m doing it too, and in any given circumstance can look over at her and say, “Yeah, that’s definitely the way I should be handling this.” It’s like coming up behind Babe Ruth in the batting roster every time. I knew she’d be better than me, especially during the Man Cub’s early, pre-verbal period, but I had no idea how much, or how grateful I’d be that she was.

Because the most important thing to me is that our son grow up happy and well-adjusted. Ol’ Fang’s ship has already sailed [insert your own favorite maritime disaster joke here], but we still have time to correct the bloodline with the next generation. I want to make me the historical aberration. The Missus’ kin are about as well-adjusted as you could hope for, and it’s my aim to see that he follow their lead and not his Daddy’s.

I’m gonna stay out of the way except where specifically fatherly guidance is called for. I started him out roughhousing early, and when he begins to cuss, he’ll do it like a longshoreman, not some little lord Fauntleroy still wet behind the ears.

I’ll rock him to sleep in my arms, change his diapers, chase him across the room as he learns to crawl and ride out his daily 4:30 a.m. manic burst, but I’ll let her shape his self-esteem.

Because as a mother, she is unparalleled. I kid you not. If we celebrated a Wive’s Day in this country, I’d write this same post then and mean it every bit as much. She treats me better than I deserve and she’s gonna make sure I don’t ruin our son’s life.

She is everything to me. She is my Thanksgiving Day in May, and every day. Thanksgiving Day for the rest of my life.