I cannot believe that it’s already been a month since Mother’s Day. I have to admit I had a really exceptional one. My husband let me sleep in while he made me crab eggs benedict from scratch. It took him a dozen eggs and two batches of hollandaise, but the man did it. And they were fantastic. I later read the recipe and realized that each serving (I had two) were 666 calories a piece. Hmmm, coincidence? But I digress.
Over breakfast I got to open my two cards, one of which made me cry, it was so sweet.
He then had my sister pick me up and we went swimming, which is one of my favorite types of exercise although I’m awful at it, and afterward she took me out to lunch. Back home to hang out with the kids who had been napped and were in great moods, and then I was whisked off to an exotic belly dancing restaurant for dinner sans kids but accompanied by lots of fruity cocktails.
The entire day was planned by my hubby. And I was very grateful. Which made me amorous.
And it doesn’t have to be a day filled with lots of activities. The other night I was talking to one of my best girlfriends and walked in on my husband. He was on his knees, sorting my son’s toys into their respective bins and singing a “clean up” song to get my son to join him. I had to stop mid-conversation and tell her what was occurring right before my eyes. I said, “It’s kind of making me horny.” She said, “It’s kind of making ME horny.”
I now know why in all of those action movies when the hero saves the lead actress from certain death by a bomb, car or dinosaur, she can’t help herself and has to succumb to desire. I figure if cleaning and sorting my son’s toys would do it for me, what would I do if he saved me from physical harm? I dare not say.