My Own Personal Shoppers, Thank You

The Bloomingdale ad reads:

Our personal shoppers know mom best.

Well that's not too pathetic. Fortunately, that's not how it goes in my house. My kids know that I am a disorganized beyond redemption, that I prefer to work outdoors than in, calling me "a nerd" or "a geek" or "strange" is a compliment, I will dance to the car radio from behind the steering wheel for the sole purpose of embarassing them, and that a rise in my vocal decibels means either (a) duck or (b) get ready for a history lesson.

When I say, "OMG! I CAN'T FIND . . . ," it's a knee jerk for them to instruct, "Stop. Calm down. You have it. Look again." They can always expect to find forgotten food in the oven. When the car starts and they hear someone reading an audiobook on, say, rock formation or the adventures of some 16th Century sea farer, they don't bother to ask to change the station. They know I will order a glass of red wine as soon as I am seated at a restaurant table, and that I have been known to, on extended road trip, even suggested that such be served up as part of any Burger King's breakfast meal menu. They know my eyes will water the second I see an image of a dead child or hear a sad country song (as well as the fact that if I pinch the skin between my nose and upper lip I can stop the tears), and that I, under no circumstances, want to die. Ever.

And so every year, the girls get me a pair of garden gloves and a gift certificate for a massage. They also beg me to take them out to dinner. Except not Burger King.

My husband does nothing, explaining once, "You are not my mother." Having read that Elvis stopped having sex with Priscilla after she gave birth to their daughter because she was now "a mom," I decided not to push the issue.

Now, if I were to call Bloomies and give the above description to one of their personal shoppers, I wonder what they would recommend.