Yesterday (as I write this) was Mother’s Day.  I always wonder what will happen on Mother’s Day because I have a husband who thinks leaving the toilet seat down constitutes a special gift, only to be given on special occasions – like Mother’s Day.  For cryin’ out loud, we’ve been together for almost a quarter of a century.  You’d think he’d get tired of fishing me out of the bowl when I fall in due to a miscalculated “sit down.”  If anything his absentmindedness (for lack of a better word) has taught me to NEVER go to the bathroom in the dark.

Anyway, now that my boys are a teen and a tween, I want to make sure they understand that they MUST acknowledge all of the special occasions for the women in their lives, starting with me.  That means on Christmas, my birthday, and of course, Mother’s Day, I’d better be opening a cute little box from some place like Nordstrom or the State Liquor Store before noon. (Okay, so that second one is only for after they turn 21.  Until then they can get me something personal from Target if they haven’t mowed enough lawns to shop at Nordstrom.)  For their future womenfolk, those “must remember” occasions extend to Valentine’s Day, and any anniversary ranging from the day they said their “I do’s” to the first time they watched Steel Magnolias with their girlfriends and cried like babies (or whatever it is their gals choose to commemorate).

I can’t stand it when mothers don’t train their sons how to be thoughtful gift-givers.  And yes, it has to be a learned skill when it comes to the XY chromosome.  A male DOES NOT come out of the womb knowing that he should NOT give his woman a bread maker for their anniversary just because he likes fresh-baked bread.

Ladies, you are not doing your sons any favors by making excuses when they forget to remember you on your special occasions.  I don’t care if Junior is off building kwanza huts for the Peace Corps in the jungles of Southeast Asia or sweeping mines in Iraq, there must be some time during the day on your birthday when he can put down the machete or the AK-47 and drop you an e-card.  After all, you did change his diaper long after his little sister was potty trained and you kept his fear of circus clowns a secret all the way up until he left home for college.

Remember, you want your son to someday have a happy family life of his own. That isn’t going to happen if he consistently forgets his wife’s birthday, yet has the wherewithal to set the Tivo to record the annual Jackass marathon on Comedy Central.  It’s up to YOU to teach him to be a kind, considerate, thoughtful mate, preferably one who isn’t afraid to educate himself on the investment benefits of fine jewelry.

So suffice it to say, my sons are a work in progress.  They aren’t totally trained yet, but they’re getting there.  We’ve graduated from the macaroni bracelets that they made in preschool (and that I still proudly wear) to the onyx earrings and glass photo cube that they gave me yesterday for Mother’s Day, both of which I love.

But the thing that really got to me this Mother’s Day was that they (and their father) made breakfast for me.  But not just any breakfast.  No, they decided to make Eggs Benedict.  This might not seem like such a big deal, except that not one of the three of them knows how to boil an egg, let alone poach one.  Now, I do admit that this is my fault.  We haven’t got to the cooking portion of our life skills training yet, however, kudos to them for getting out the Betty Crocker Cookbook and looking up Eggs Benedict. 

Sensing disaster, I decided to go take a shower.

When I came back, the kitchen was a mess, and I saw my husband using a spoon to ladle egg white (along with some shells) out of a bowl, which was nearly impossible to do since the yolk had broken.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Separating an egg,” he said with such intensity I thought he was doing our income tax return at the same time.

“Into what?  Molecules?” I inquired. “Besides, you poach an egg with the egg white, so why are you trying to separate it?”

“This is for the Hollandaise sauce,” my older son answered.

“You’re making Hollandaise from scratch?” I asked with the same shock I reserve for people who attempt to cross the Atlantic in a hot air balloon.

“Well yeah,” said my husband confidently.  “Isn’t that what goes on Eggs Benedict?”

“Um, I’m going to go sort my underwear drawer now.  Just let me know when it’s time to eat.”  No one noticed when I disappeared from the kitchen.

About a half hour later they called me for breakfast.  The poached eggs were actually pretty good, but the Hollandaise sauce had the consistency of yellow lard.

“It was perfect a few minutes ago,” my husband said.

“Yeah.  It thickens up quick,” I replied.  “But I’m sure it’ll still be good.”

And it was.  In fact, it was the best breakfast I’ve ever had in my life.

Afterwards, I asked my husband and sons why they just didn’t buy the packaged Hollandaise sauce, where you simply add milk and butter. 

“They make that?” my boys asked.

Oh, well.  I guess practice makes perfect when you’re winding your way to greatness.