Happy Mother's Day to ME.

So what did I do to celebrate? Breakfast in bed? Praise? Presents?

Nope.

I was the first up and out of the house, which means breakfast in bed wasn't going to happen.

And somehow no one saw fit to give me a present. My kids are too old now for the bouquet of construction paper flowers or the necklace of giant beads on a stretchy elastic. And the husband will soon be paying for a new driveway and back deck. So no gifts.

Praise? As if! Except for the general cracking up from the hilarity that is Poppy's poop jokes, no praise wended its way Poppywards today.

So what, I thought to myself as I drove home from yet another grueling rehearsal, shall we do to celebrate MY DAY?

And then it struck me. Ironman. Which I've been trying to force my son to go see with me. Well, it being Mother's Day, what more perfect opportunity could there possibly be for forcing not just my son, but my entire family, (including my delicate, high-strung daughter) to sit through 90 minutes of explosions, violence, and special effects?

None, that's what.

So I did just that. And afterwards, I made my husband take us out for sushi.

And now, as the sake-filled Poppy sinks slowly in the west, we close the current chapter in the internet book of her life, or "blog," whose current entry could just as easily be called "How to Use an Utter Lack of Tact and a High Degree of Pushiness to Get What You Want for Mother's Day."

Honestly, I should charge big bucks for spelling out my techniques in such clear, concise prose. Movie tickets and sushi don't grow on trees, you know.