A Strange Sort of Mother's Day Post
Mother's Day. It's all about mom. We, the mommies are to sit back, pretend to relax, and allow our loin fruit (and significant other) to wait on us hand and foot. We are to be pampered. Fed in our beds. Showered with flowers. It's tradition. This is my 4th Mother's Day as a ranking member of the honored, and it is the 4th Mother's Day where instead of being spoiled rotten, I choose to take care of my husband.
That sounds like a big bummer. Right now many of you are cutting glaring faces in the general direction of The Hippie, wondering how he can let your favorite spazzy dance fairy languish on a day that is devoted to mothers everywhere. However: I wouldn't have it any other way.
For those of you who are somehow unaware, the Hippie is the chef-person at The Village in Downtown Bryan. It's a cute little cafe, one that I love. It's apparently loved by many other ladies too, because every year for Mother's Day the place is packed. This year once again, the Hippie cooked through the night to make sure that there was enough food for every mamma (and her entourage) who chose to come to the cafe instead of having Sunday lunch at home. His attention to detail in his kitchen is incomparable, and he will. Not. Rest. Until he knows that each, and every mother who dines at The Village will be treated like the queen she is. He takes this day very seriously, y'all. Even before we were dating, I recall him chatting with another cook and informing the youngin' that he needed let his mom kiss him because "it's your mom. That's what you do,".
If you think that he is hyper-attentive at work, your mind would be blown by the way he treats us at home. There's a reason that I don't mind giving up a Sunday to take care of him. This man waits on me hand and foot every day. There is not a moment that his isn't trying to find a new way to make me smile. Even when he's utterly spent, he will walk in the door, and immediately jump into parenting mode so that I can have a break. He cooks practically every meal. He massages my feet. He stays up with me when I'm angsty. He throws Hippie Jr in the air almost every time he asks to play. His patience with us is endless, and there is nothing he wouldn't do to remind us of just how much he loves us.
I know it's cliche, but I don't need a special day to be spoiled and loved on. That is my daily reality, folks. Every day I am worshipped by this amazing, wonderful, devilishly handsome Hippie man. Every day he instructs Hippie Jr in the proper way (according to him) to treat the ones you love. And every day I end up gobsmacked, wondering what the hell I did to deserve them both.
So... happy Mother's Day to the real hero of our house: The Hippie. I don't what I'd do without you, love. And I don't want to find out. We're having take out for dinner after your nap.