Mother's Day Miracle
One Sunday about eight or nine years ago, I decided to hit the links for nine holes of golf, as guys liked to do on Sundays in May eight or nine years ago. It was a beautiful day and my wife was like, “Sure, whatever.” What did she care? I’d be out of the house and less likely to accidentally send a 4-foot long drill bit through our living room ceiling, as I had done within days of our having moved in together. The month of May might be the finest month for weather in Boston, and going to a nice course on a beautiful Sunday in the middle of the day is a recipe for long waits at every tee, but for some reason I found myself alone, except for the occasional foursome of cheerful ladies. Somewhere midway through my round, it occurred to me what was up: it was Mother’s Day, and I was a rare fellow with no (living) mother and a wife who hadn’t (yet) given birth to our children. Needless to say, with two young kids who appreciate their mom (and a husband who appreciates her too), golfing on Mother’s Day is now a thing of the past.