How the Queen and I spent a particularly decadent Mother's Day

I’ve pretty much had it with women and children. The husky puppy for one, who has turned out to be a bossy diva, a less-scrupulous daughter. I’m ready to send her back to Siberia. Never trust a blue-eyed Russian spy. Learned that while I was with the CIA.

Posh is driving me a little nuts lately too. Her Mother’s Day celebration was a triumph on every level: gastronomically, emotionally, spiritually. Exhausted me, really. At 4:52 p.m., I crawled into bed. It had been a long day to that point, and I knew the rest would be spent worshiping their mother like never before. I’d seen enough of that.

I had pointed out to them that, for the last few months, I’d been their mother too, as Posh put all her energy into getting healthy. Dishes. Laundry. Homework. There was nothing I wouldn’t do (then redo). To my mind, I was an “honorary mother,” and entitled to a small mention in Sunday’s massive celebration.

That plea fell on deaf ears. The only token gesture came when the younger daughter made me a tomato-cheese-bacon sandwich, put a thumb print in the soft bread, took two bites herself, then handed it over.

Posh scolded her for spoiling me. Within earshot, as if I wasn’t there, the daughter explained, “You know how cranky he gets when he doesn’t eat, right?” Pretty cranky, evidently.

And so went my Mother’s Day.

Posh’s day? As I said, hers was a mitzvah. It wasn’t so much the gifts as it was the total fawning. First, they insisted on making her breakfast in bed.

“Mom, wake up,” they ordered.

“Whuuuuuuuuh?”

“We just wanted to talk to you about your breakfast options,” the daughter told her.

“I can sleep and listen to you at the same time,” Posh mumbled.

Thirty-five years ago, when we planned for children, all I asked was that they have really nice hair and eyes the size of pickle jars.

We got all that, and more. They are so thoughtful, but not to the point where it totally takes over their lives, if you know what I mean. They made her a nice breakfast, served on paper plates, with a lavish edible fruit centerpiece, the kind no one ever eats because it is too nice-looking.

Our children read somewhere that moms don’t crave gifts so much as a card, written from the heart. That’s all moms really want on Mother’s Day.

To save paper, two of them shared a homemade card. It was lovely — handwritten and on green construction paper. Probably the most cherished notes a mom will ever get come on green construction paper.

“You mean everything to me, that’s including baseball,” the little guy gushed.

“I have so much to say about the person who pushes me to do my very best, and sometimes pushes the wrong buttons too,” the younger daughter wrote. “But it’s OK, I know you still love me! I mean, you do, right?”

So it wasn’t so much a greeting card as a session with Dr. Phil, which is OK — that’s what moms are here for too.

“Whenever the sun is hidden behind clouds, you are my sun,” the little guy wrote, and then went on to quote a Bruno Mars song. To him, Bruno Mars is like Lennon or Longfellow, only deeper.

Anyway, that’s how her Mother’s Day went. I felt brined when it was over, like a turkey ready for roasting. I felt inspired too. After my late-afternoon nap, I rallied to vacuum up the husky hair, an hour-long task. It is so snow-like, this husky hair, and lands in such drifts, that I sang Christmas carols the whole time.

“Oh, the weather outside is frightful….”

Then I raced out to the grill to overcook some nice rib-eyes (you know how cranky I get when I don’t eat, right?).

I will say this for kids, they have their mother’s gift for food. They can also handle a credit card like a scythe.

At Gelson’s, they purchased a dessert that was beyond remarkable. The cake was varnished in this dark chocolate goo-cream. If you took the rush you felt from the best burger you ever tasted, crossed it with the buzz you felt from your first French kiss, you’d have the sensation of this cake upon your tongue.

It was as if angels whipped up this chocolate cake by hand, then breathed on it, then blessed it.

In a sense, they had. Posh’s angels aren’t really angels, but on this day they could do no wrong. Because they were around her. That’s all. Just around her. Like a shawl.

Chris.Erskine@latimes.com

Twitter: @erskinetimes

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