As I was getting Justin to bed last night, he felt an urgent need for me to dig into his bookbag. “Just don’t get all weird on me, okay Mom?” he implored. Ooh, I was excited. “Getting weird” is Justin’s term for getting all mushy and teary-eyed over him. Woo!

The first thing I dug out was a Mother’s Day present. It’s a picture of Justin, surrounded by a picture frame made from that squishy spongy material in vogue now.

Here, okay, see why I sniffled?

“Aww, Mom,” he complained half-heartedly, grinning. I gave him kisses and hugs and he giggled like we moms never admit our grown-up eight-year-olds do.

More digging and I found the next Mother’s Day present. It’s so funny… he loves me for all the “mom” things I do. The yucky parental stuff. I always want to be the “cool” one, but end up being loved for being a parent. Imagine that.

I smiled for the rest of the night. And today, come to think of it.

Tickled,
michelle

Have I mentioned how tired I am of thinking about invitations? No, really.

I think it’s because they seem to mean a lot to Stephen, oddly. Also, I have conflicting desires for them and it’s split exactly 50/50.

On one hand, I’d like something different. Not Holographed-Photo-of-Stephen-and-I different, but maybe something like the sweet but vivid watercolor flowers I saw on one. Or elegant swirls of a color on a white background.

This, of course, is at odds with the fact that I’d like to pretend to be cultured and elegant and have beautifully “tailored” invitations showing everyone my simple yet sophisticated side.

[Who in the hell am I kidding, anyway?]

I’m not sure why I’m hesitating on just ordering what I like. Today I went to my soon-to-be sister-in-law’s store to look through piles of invitation books. After a while they started blurring together. I just wish one would jump out at me. Or maybe that Stephen would just damn well finish his finals get up here to help. Whichever.