The Founding Fathers of Mother's Day 

Mother's Day. If you're reading these words than the holiday is closer than it appears. Look behind you. Yup, there it is. If there isn't at least a Hallmark card in that past reflection, I foresee a road of groveling in your future.

Did you hit the holiday? I've got one embedded in the grill of my car. A Mother's Day, not a mother. I don't think I've ever hit a mother with my car. I have been called a mother in my car--well sort of, that was the first name they gave me. Anyway… I have to make sure I hit Mother's Day. I have several Moms to get to. Yeah, I know, I've been down this road before and blogged about Rob of the multi-moms before. The road sign ahead says "Rob Redundancy Area: Speed Through Blindly."

It's OK; just roll up your windows and crack up the radio. I'll be done shortly. While I explain my multi-mom genealogy to the unknowing, you can do what I do: I think of the Pirate Queen's visit coming up at the end of the month. I think of that a lot. I'm excited.

What, you've heard enough about that, too? Boy! You're a tough reader today. A little calendar travel makes you cranky. Fine. I've put away my mom diagrams, let's move on, with today's non swashbuckling topic: my dad.

Moms, you're all great. When we kids need sympathy, there's mom. When we need understanding, there's mom. When we need something entirely different: there's dad.

My dad. He's a great guy, but whenever I wonder where my mischievous gene comes from, he rears his elderly head and smirks. Yeah, great guy.

He was so understanding during my divorce, all sarcasm was tied and stowed in the inter-head compartment; I think he was playing possum with kit gloves on his paws. He was the rest area of logic and experience offering fatherly wisdom and support.

"I think you've got an opportunity ahead of you, son. You're at a crossroads."

Yeah. I love my dad. Even when I couldn't see my future, he was there with a pair of road flares saying, "just keep moving this way."

Now I think he smells that I'm healed. He's put away the road flairs and added some road-tacks and bait-chum for fun.

See Sunday I called my mom. I may not be the best son, but I am the dutiful son; I try to be appreciative: I call.

Ring-ring!

Ring-ring!

Ring-ring!

Ring-ring!

"Please leave a message after the beep" BEEEP!

"Hey Mom! It's just me. Happy Mother's Day!"

I called. The obligation sign is past. It's empty road ahead for the next month or so. I called all moms and reaching none of them. It appears they're tired of hearing about the Pirate Queen too. I don't know how that's possible, but I shrug and go to work on my bathroom.

With all my newfound unemployment time, I have more time for cleaning and mini projects. This weekend I bought new toilet seats. The old ones were looking like something you'd find in an abandoned service station somewhere along an Arizona Highway. I figured it was time to buy new seats or put up a condom machine. I opted for the seats.

I've installed seats before, and there really isn't much to the job. In 10 minutes I was done. That was just enough time for my mom to call me back.

"Hi Rob! I'm just calling you back. I hope you're doing something fun!"

So, like I said, I'm dutiful. I called her back. I didn't know that Dad would be lurking in the background. That's my fault for underestimating my father.

"Sorry Mom, I wasn't doing anything fun. I was replacing toilet seats."

"Why?"

"They were looking kinda seedy."

There's silence for a moment then mom says, "Your father says it's because you have a guest coming and you want her to use your bathroom."

Thanks Dad.

I can hear him thinking in reply, You're welcome, son. Yeah, now that I'm over 21 and out of his house, we share that kind of bond. When I was younger, I couldn't hear the voices of any of my parents--not even through 1/4 drywall.

"Robert Boyd, get your ass in here!"

Hey, listen! There's a new AC/DC song on the radio! I should crank that up!

"No that's not why I'm replacing the seats, Mom," I continue. Yeah, it's Mother's Day and I'm lying to my mother. I'm a great kid. I blame Dad. You tell your mom about the woman spending a week in your house, go ahead, I dare you. Oh, sure, it's not like mom doesn't know, it just that it's a "don't ask don't tell area." There are detour signs blocking off that road and it's littered with pot holes.

My dad is moving the signs, for fun and planting mine fields. He's good at that. Always has been. That's ok, this isn't the last mine. Nope. The next one didn't even have a sign.

See, my dad is a supportive father: he reads my blogs. What's more he remembers what he reads. That's right, schools could do set reading comprehension bars by what my father retains from my blogs. Some days he remembers things I don't even acknowledge writing.

"So what's with all the Smurfs, son?"

"I dunno."

"Too much TV and not enough weeding?"

"No."

"How's the weeding coming at your house these days?"

"Uhm, ya know, I've gotta go, Dad…"

I know he reads though, it's great, but sometimes it's a little awkward. Like the spaghetti post, or a month ago when I wrote the blog about one man's trashy talk, and compared cleaning the house while talking to the Pirate Queen to phone erotica. Phone erotica is not a conversation you really want to have with your parents. Luckily, my dad doesn't talk phone sex. No, he has other plans.

While I'm talking to my mom, I'm cleaning my bathroom. Yeah. It's exciting, but Sunday is cleaning day, and in the days of Bluetooth, it's just so much easier to multitask. Otherwise the bathroom doesn't get done.

"So what are you doing?" Mom didn't read the previous paragraph. She's just listening to the southing background sounds of the running water. "You're not talking to me in the bath, are you?"

"Uhm, no Mom." Cuz, talking to Mom and taking a bath really is a disturbing thought, "I'm cleaning."

"You know I can't see you, right? You're not cleaning out of guilt, are you?"
"Oh, no! It's not one of my Mommy issues I swear! I'd have sent you the shrink bill if it were. No, I'm cleaning because I need to, and because I'm unemployed with plenty of time."

"Oh, ok….Who's the Pirate Queen?"
"WHAT?"

"You're father just said that you clean the house while on the phone with the Pirate Queen all the time."

Et tu, Padre?

Now I'm silent. I need to make a quick explanation that doesn't involve phone sex so that I can work around this trap laid by my father. There's evil laughter ringing in my skull like Quasimodo clanging a nutty belfry. The din is not mine. It's Dad. This is his way of enjoying mother's day. He's giving me grief through mom.

Wonderful.

"The pirate queen? She's the girl I was telling you about. Pirate Queen is how I refer to her in my blog."

"And you talk to her about cleaning?"

"Why yes. Yes I do. I usually clean when I call her. You know, doing dishes and stuff. " I keep the whole thing at face value. I don't want to tell mom that I've worked a phone sex metaphor into cleaning. It sounds too dirty.

Almost as dirty as my father lying traps. That's ok. It's good to know that I'm alive, and nothing makes you feel more alive than swerving pits and mines dropped by family. Besides, it's ok; Mom doesn't travel down any of the roads opened up by Dad ,and we finish a nice polite mother/son chat without the pitfalls.

I file this in my glovebox with a map. Father's Day is coming up. I've got some special gifts planned for Dad then.