It never fails. Any time anything that calls for even the smallest celebration (completed the driving class to get your speeding ticket off your record? Woohoo, let’s celebrate!) my mom will call:
Mom: Marie, I heard you turned your library books in on time.
Mom: Great! Let’s go to Sonic to celebrate!
You may not have noticed it. It was subtle. But my mom, in the convo above, decided where to eat to celebrate my accomplishment. Sure, it seems like a little thing but it happens all the time. Even on legitimate celebrations.
My dad’s idea of a meal prepared by the hands of God is a sack of White Castle hamburgers (insert vomit noise here) and a Klondike bar. The thought of this meal makes this man giggle. Yet, whenever it’s time to decide what to eat for his birthday dinner odds are we’re going to eat whatever my mom’s in the mood for. Watch:
Mom: Happy Birthday, Hon! Where do you want to eat?
Dad: Well, you know my favorite meal, so I guess we’ll eat White-
Mom: Eh, no one likes that but you. Let’s go to Las Palmas. I love their chips.
It may be your birthday dinner, but it’s always Mom’s birthday decision.
I’ve always teased my mom about this. I mean getting your way on someone else’s birthday is pretty wrong. It may have even been one of the commandments that Moses left on the mountain: Thou shalt not deprive a loved one their birthday dinner preference.
And then yesterday happened.
Mark’s birthday was yesterday. So we needed to decide where to eat. For his birthday.
Me: Hey where do you want to eat tonight, Birthday Boy?
Me: We could eat Greek. I love Greek.
And then I slapped my hand over my mouth.
Holy roly poly.
I am my mother.
(And we did eat Greek because I really do love Greek. Even if it’s Mark’s birthday.)