Sarah Nigbor

Thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone who emailed or called me about last week’s column. I am truly humbled by the response. The encouragement and kind words were touching; I can’t believe how many people contacted me and shared what this column has meant to them. And that’s the point of the column: To connect with readers. Though we all come from different backgrounds, experiences and perspectives, we have more in common than differences. We all have highs and lows, triumphs and failures, moments of tears and moments of laughter. Thanks for reading about mine. I love hearing about yours as well.

Every Mother’s Day, I picture myself being showered with love and gifts from my adoring children and husband while being brought coffee, wine and flowers. They jump at the chance to fulfill my every wish and I don’t have to lift a finger the entire day. The house is spotless; there are no conflicts between siblings. The honey-do list is complete without fuss and the animals behave: The dog doesn’t try to snack in the cat’s litter box, the cat doesn’t bring mice into the sunroom to decapitate and no one fights me about cleaning the rabbits’ cages.

But somehow, this scenario just never materializes.

This Mother’s Day, I worked all day. The kids were at their other parents’ homes, so I didn’t get to see them. Two of them called and two texted. As teens, I figure that’s a win.

When I came home from work, instead of finding a doting husband with flowers and wine, I found a crabby man covered in sweat and grime, swearing and ranting about the inept people at Fleet Farm and the fact that the lawn mower battery died. He had to spend $200 on a new one, which delayed his mowing plan for the day. He hadn’t even started mowing when I got home at 4 p.m., so that’s what he spent the next few hours doing. Instead of being serenaded with compliments about being a wonderful mother while sipping wine in a steaming bubble bath, prepared for me of course, I decided to do the dishes. I knocked out three loads of laundry. I began editing content for that week’s paper. I ran a cold iced tea out to hubby, who grunted at me and chugged it one gulp. When the mower ran out of gas, I brought some down to him on the 4-wheeler.

As the hours ticked by, my balloon of hope for a nice evening deflated. When Hubby came in, crabbier than ever and now exhausted (understandably), I offered to cook dinner or go get takeout. He had promised to cook me a Mother’s Day meal, but I didn’t think now was a good time. I actually preferred he didn’t, since his mood was so foul. I felt guilty having him cook. But he insisted. Men are stubborn like that. He should’ve listened to me.

As he diced ham for our pasta dish, I heard a yelp. He had sliced his thumb down to the bone. As he held a paper towel to it, turning redder by the second, I rummaged in the bathroom for the bandages I knew were there. Except they weren’t. Our 14-year-old is constantly using Band-aids for every little boo-boo, and he had depleted our supply; in the box I found a nice collection of empty wrappers but no bandages. I finally found a stray one and some gauze, but it wasn’t really enough. He should have gone to the ER but refused. I didn’t have the energy to argue and figured he is an adult who makes his own decisions.

So while he rested his thumb and kept it covered, I cleaned the kitchen up (there was blood on every possible surface, I swear), washed the dishes, put away the leftovers and waited on him by bringing him water, Ibuprofen and anything else he asked for. When he asked me to rub his feet, I just looked at him. Really? I didn’t know rubbing your husband’s feet was a MOTHER’S DAY activity. He better have pretty low expectations for Father’s Day, is all I can say.