For supper, my husband made beef stew, home-baked bread, and spice cake - all were delicious, by the way. He bought an expensive cut of meat, which he thought was called Agnes beef (say Angus, honey, An-gus). Really, I'd hate to think my pleasure was at the expense of a little old lady.
In short, my husband and kids did exactly what they were supposed to do for mother's day - they made me feel special. Unfortunately, I'm so used to doing everything myself, I had to force myself to walk away when my husband started making the cake using terribly inefficient techniques. I did help him out at supper time because honestly I couldn't walk away. I have issues, I admit it.
But the kicker was the dishwasher episode. Setting: Me lying in bed, relaxed, reading a House Beautiful magazine after eating my delicious breakfast. My husband has just headed into the kitchen when I hear, "OOOhhhh..." in this mournful, oh crud, kind of voice. Sensing trouble, I leaped out of bed (seriously, I did) and dashed into the kitchen. For some reason, I just knew it was the dishwasher. Maybe it wasn't making the same noise I'm accustomed to. I don't know. All I knew was that I was needed to save the day.
And then I saw the bubbles.
That dishwasher was frothing at the mouth like a rabid racco
When it was all over, I told my husband he was a writer's dream, and then I somehow managed to laugh and give him a hug. What can I say? Mothers need to be needed.
Seeing all those bubbles just made my day.