Mommy’s on the milk carton?

TODAY WE PUT A picture of their mother on the milk cartoon. Missing. Vanished. Gone.

No one here can figure out why she left exactly. Sure, the entire wood-frame house rattles every time someone slams the front door. And the toddler wakes her up with “Happy Mommy’s Day” each morning, even though her day will be anything like Mother’s Day. So maybe it was the irony of it all that drove her off. In our house, gusts of irony blow through like the winter wind.

Still, I don’t see why she’d leave so abruptly. Sure, the kids have been a little unappreciative lately, what with their busy lives and squeaky tight social calendars. You can’t blame them for running her off. It’s not like they were never going to clean their rooms.

And I don’t see how she’d leave such splendor. You should see what I’m doing with the backyard. New lighting, sprinklers, a flower bed, fresh sod.

In the corner, near the grill, I’m building a small amphitheater. I told her that once this amphitheater is finished, probably around 2012, we will bring in small theater troupes to stage productions of “Romeo and Juliet.” Then we will sit out on those new boulders I’m installing and watch for similarities to our own lives. “Bravo!” we’ll shout when “Romeo and Juliet” is over. “Hey, Shakespeare, you really nailed that one!”

So it’s not like we’re lacking in culture or outdoor activities. And it certainly couldn’t have been this house she’s fed up with. It’s a palace really, on a slightly smaller scale. I bought her the best appliances for the new kitchen. Since then, three different plumbers have come, and the dishwasher still overflows. The Viking stove ... jeez what a mess. The electronic pilot click-click-clicks for no apparent reason, and it’s hard to set something to simmer. What’d she expect for 2,000 bucks anyway?

I mean, the GE refrigerator works fine, doesn’t it? It’s failed only twice in its first four years. It has this special compartment that lets you chill a bottle of wine in a single minute. Great. I mean, who can wait an entire minute?

Maybe it’s the little town we live in. I’m pretty convinced now that there’s vodka in the water supply, the parents stumbling about as if always on their second martini. I love them like brothers and sisters, but they’re always buying new things, which means we have to buy new things. We’re still paying for the old things we already have. Maybe that’s why she left.

It couldn’t have been the kids. OK, maybe it was the kids. They are a gallant tribe, willing to pitch in and help. They always put their dishes in the dishwasher the third time you ask them -- always -- or help with the laundry the seventh time you mention you need a little help.

“I NEED A LITTLE HELP HERE!!!” their mother will scream, and I guarantee you that within 15 minutes they will have put down their cellphones and stumbled to the kitchen to see what all the commotion is about.

“I’m thinking of having their hearing tested,” I said last week.

“You?”

OK, so sometimes I’m not as responsive as I could be. I hear what I want to hear, sure enough. Dads are strange beasts, in that we will devote ourselves to a single task at a time, then move on to the next single thing. It is quaint, outdated behavior in a world that increasingly demands several activities at once. In 10,000 years, humans will have developed another arm. OK, women will have developed a third arm. Men will still be tinkering with that grill they got in 2003.

It must kill her to watch someone move at this sort of pace ... er, the whirling dervish of American motherhood. So maybe it’s me. Me? No way.

In any case, she’s gone, her picture now on milk cartons from Maine to Modesto. In a few days, maybe a week, the kids will realize she’s gone, then throw themselves upon their beds, crying furiously.

“Who’s gonna do my hair?!” they’ll wail.

“Who’s gonna sort my socks?”

The love of my life is about 5 feet tall, and was last seen wearing a frown, 7-year-old jeans and sensible shoes. She answers to Mom, Mother, Mommy, Ma, Mommy Salami, Mama Mia, Mother Hubbard and Yo Dude (though the last one we use pretty sparingly).

Please call if you see her. The stupid dryer is beeping and nobody knows quite what to do.

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Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com. His MySpace page, the subject of last week’s column, is myspace.com/chriserskine.