I love the grocery store on Mother’s Day. If you get there just after it opens, first thing in the morning, you’ll see a stream of men coming out with flowers and a worried look on their face. Godspeed, good men, godspeed.
Inside, there’s always a bunch of young men, often with toddlers in tow, peering at a list of items and looking around wildly, trying to figure out where they keep the lemon juice. I know not all men are like this – my own husband can easily find the lemon juice – but Mother’s Day is the one day when you see a flock of men who usually do not grocery shop coming out of the woodwork. I saw one man in the produce section showing his list to the stock guy, asking him which lettuce was the “iceberg lettuce.” You can do it, buddy, you can do it.
I find these men both charming and exasperating. But at least it does serve to mark the occasion every year, a tradition on par, for me, with egg hunts and stockings hung by the fire. See you next year, Men of the Superstore.