Per instructions, I called to check the status of my jury summons last night and they said we weren’t needed this week. Either that or someone at the courthouse Googled “Harrison county jury duty,” found my post as the 2nd result, and decided that any outcome resembling this latest comment from Deb on the Rocks would not work for them:
“If it looks like a close call, raise your hand and ask the judge at what point the whole case will be bloggable, and if it is okay if you use Twitter on your breaks. That might do it.”
I was planning to add, “When can I call my attorney husband to check on the law? Because this sounds sketchy… And did I mention I need to go to the bathroom again? …yes, I know I just went 10 minutes ago… Um, can someone check on my kids? I left them in the car… yes, with the windows rolled down. This isn’t Alabama.”
And let’s not forget this thankful tweet I sent out earlier:
*voir dire: (vwär dîr') n. A preliminary examination of prospective jurors or witnesses under oath to determine their competence or suitability.
…which always reminds me of My Cousin Vinny. Since I couldn’t find the “voir dire” scene, this one will do just fine. It is precisely how I pictured my own voir dire.
Which then reminds me of when my brother once asked his best friend Robbie if he’d seen “My Cousin Vinny.” Robbie’s response: “I haven’t met any of your family.”
I've been downright melancholy lately. I think it's the hormones. Nevertheless.
There has been a lot of sighing going on.
I thought a good way to work some of this tearfulness out of my system would be to go and see My Sister's Keeper. You know, just flat out torture some emotion out of myself in big heaping helpings of release.
What I didn't expect was to be blindsided by the trailer for my favorite book before I had even broken out the tissues:
People, The Time Traveler's Wife
is my favorite book. Possibly of all time. Possibly period. I read it when I was pregnant with Q and I remember every moment of it, along with where I was when I read and experienced each second of this amazing love story.
I think our brains are particularly permeable to emotions we feel during pregnancy. Our hormones seem to embed certain experiences just a little bit deeper.
Every year I entertain an internal debate as to whether or not I should remind my husband that Mother’s Day is coming up or wait and see if he remembers on his own.
I picture this conversation:
Maguire: When is Mother’s Day this year?
Megan: Yesterday.
It’s evil, yes, but I can’t help but be mindful of my store of “You owe me one” moments. I’ve been cashing them in a lot lately, what with the month in front of the toilet and the periodic energy droughts that wrack my pregnant body. I need there to be some substance behind the “Oh no you d’int” looks I throw my husband’s way when he mentions that this is his third day without clean underwear.
Maguire is an only child and came into our marriage with little to no experience in the “consideration” department. He was the kind of guy to eat the last cookie every time. The kind of guy to open the new bag of snacks you bought, you thinking they would last a couple of weeks, and eat them all in one sitting. Maybe he would put the bag back in the cupboard with some crumbs. You know, for you.
It is safe to say that the majority of our arguments begin with “What exactly did you think would happen?” or “What did you think I would say?” All simply different versions of “Did you even think of me?”
Notice how all of those exclamations include a running theme? The word “think.”
As an only child to a doting mother, Maguire functions as most men do, with his existence hovering single-mindedly somewhere near the bottom of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs pyramid.
This is human nature. Base human instincts. Men are nothing if not instinctual.
As it turns out, there is no Holiday Instinct. No “I wonder if she needs a break instinct.” At least not naturally, that is. After more than eight years of marriage, the “I wonder if she needs a break” bit can certainly be a learned response.
A learned response in the face of a wife’s outstretched claw-like hands and deranged face as she whirls around to lurch at you when you ask “While you are hanging around today, do you think you could iron my shirts and take care of these dishes?” Because, you know, I do a lot of just hanging around.
But husbands are not the only ones that could use a little work on their learned responses. Maguire is teaching me that.
In response to the multitude of ways that I ask him “Did you even think of me?” we have finally boiled our understanding of his responses down to, “No, but I would if you asked me to.”
In reaction to my “Why can’t you be more considerate?!” Maguire tells me, “I would be if you reminded me to be.”
You can imagine how I take this. Lots of “It doesn’t count as being considerate if you are told to be considerate! That’s not being considerate, that’s just following orders.”
You know the logic. Picture Jennifer Aniston’s “I want you to want to do the dishes.” to Vince Vaughn’s “Why would I want to do dishes?” in The Break-up. Vince’s point is that, in the end, he’ll do the dishes if she asks him to. And isn’t that what she wants? Explaining what Jennifer actually wants is not only mind-melting but also something that most women understand and empathize with.
But yeah, there are clean dishes ultimately involved. So what if we have to tell them the bottom line? This is what I keep asking myself.
On Mother’s Day, what I ultimately want is a break. And to be acknowledged. And to be pampered. And maybe half a dozen other things, all of which revolve around my not being asked to do any work around the house, pretty much. What I don’t actually need is for my husband to suddenly become psychic (his frequent claim as to what I clearly must want because how else was he supposed to know it was our anniversary?!) and begin acting considerate.
Maguire, today I’m going to tell you what I want and I’m going to let it count when you do it. Not because it was a surprise or because you thought of it all on your own. Nah. Because I’m the mom and moms know what really counts in the end.
Today is Mother’s Day. Now, um, surprise me. I’ll tell you how.
***
PS- Hot red beans and rice! I'm the Southern Mama Blogger of the Week for Mother's Day over at Southern Living Magazine. Yes, that Southern Living. The one on every southern mama's coffee table and in every well-equipped guest bath! Now then, since a dream of mine is to write for them, ya'll please go over and tell them that they didn't drop the cheese ball when they chose me. And Happy Mother's Day!