Last night, Michael said, "Tomorrow is Mother's Day. I'm sorry I didn't get you a card." Michael always writes me deep, thoughtful cards on major holidays. He and I have the flu, so I knew he hadn't done anything. No problem. It'll come.
I told him that Angie, who had been feted in advance, got a KitchenAid mixer for Mother's Day, AND they went to P.F. Chang's for dinner. I'd been sitting on this report for a few days because I didn't want to imply that I needed a similarly spectacular Mother's Day. (I cook as little as possible and would just feel pressured by a fancy mixer.)
We turned in.
Michael's voice woke me: "Kristi, John threw up all over his crib."
When it comes to vomiting, John is extremely considerate in aim and timing. Yet again, he limited his targets to machine-washables and the floor, and during daylight hours. And he's one-and-done. Once he's thrown up, he returns to his sweet, energetic self.
I threw John's pajamas, bedding and Blankie in the wash while Michael gave John a bath.
"Angie isn't having this special of a Mother's Day," Michael said.
Let's hope not.
Happy Mother's Day!