The windshield wipers of love

Normally, this kind of announcement precedes a 20-minute rant about why divorces happen, but not this time. When I got into the van, ready to drive through the rain in Nashville at night, and I could suddenly, miraculously see where I was going, I knew exactly what the present meant.

It meant my husband worries about my safety.

It meant my husband loves me.

It meant my husband actually listened to me for once when I told him what I wanted for Mother's Day.

Of course, he wasn't a total idiot. I got a beautiful crimson mandevilla to climb up my front porch railing and a funny but sweet card. My youngest gave me the expected homemade bookmark and card, which made me laugh until I cried. It was more of a book than a card, with different poems on each page written by a 10-year-old, guided by a teacher. On one page, there was a list of categories, such as "If my mom was a [BLANK], she'd be a [BLANK] because [BLANK]." Some of his answers were sweet, and some insightful. "If my mom were a superhero, she'd be Telemom because she can always read my mind."

But my favorite one as "If my mom was a car, she'd be a Toyota because I can't think of any other cars."

The middle son stayed home during a family outing and baked me a pie. I'm not sure if I was more pleased or more jealous -- his first attempt created a beautiful, delicious pastry that should have been on the cover of Southern Living. After 30 years of pie baking, mine may taste good, but they still look like Easy-Bake Oven rejects.

The oldest son didn't even call.

Just about the time I was thanking the others and preparing to crawl into bed and a nice, long sulk, he walked through the door with a gift in his hand -- a sketch he'd done of a bear that I've been longing for ever since he did it.

What this wonderful Mother's Day -- the best I've ever had -- finally brought to light is the hard, cold fact that men and women, no matter what age, don't speak the same language.

When my birthday rolled around, I did the usual. I told them I wanted the den cleaned (nope, still hasn't happened) but there wasn't anything I really wanted.

Now a woman would hear that and think "She wants to be surprised with something really special that shows someone put a whole lot of thought into it and proves they love her very, very, very much."

I mean, how clear is that?

But a man hears, "A clean den. Not gonna happen. Nothing else? That can happen."

So the birthday rolls around, nobody cleans the den and Mom gets a bar of chocolate and a card and Mom is not happy. Because Mom is not happy, the guys aren't either and they'll be darned if they can figure out why.

Face it -- most divorces could be avoided if someone would invent a working translator. It would have to have some high-tech flux reciprocating echo factor that not only translates what each person is saying, but lets the speaker know what the other person is hearing. For instance, when a man says, "Mrs. Brown's yard is looking good," his wife is probably hearing him say, "I love watching Mrs. Brown work in her garden because she's younger than my wife and has bigger ... garden tools ... and I think I'll leave my wife for her and spend our kids' college funds to buy Mrs. Brown even bigger ... garden tools."

Of course, what he's really saying is "Mrs. Brown's yard is looking good."

If he's the sensitive, angsty type, what he's really saying is "Mrs. Brown's yard is looking good -- is it because Mr. Brown is a better provider? Does my wife wish she had Mr. Brown mowing her lawn instead of me?"

But since most sensitive, angsty men live in Seattle and keep Starbucks in business, I think it's safe to say that around here, if the guys say Mrs. Brown's yard is looking good, the guys are just admiring Mrs. Brown's yard.

OK, maybe the garden tools, too.

Wouldn't life be easier if we just said what we meant? I experimented with the concept before Mother's Day, when my husband and sons were still reeling from the birthday fallout.

"I need windshield wipers."

"What do you mean by that?" My husband panicked and had a flashback to a former life, when he must have lived in Seattle. "Do you want a new car? Do you want to take road trip? Are you leaving me for the mechanic?"

"No, honey, I just need some new windshield wipers for the van. Mother's Day is coming up and ..."

"Oh, no. You're not catching me out that easy," he sputtered. "If I get you windshield wipers for Mother's Day, I'll be catching heck until Father's Day."

I finally dropped the subject, tired of trying to convince him.

So Saturday, after a week of downpour and deluge and driving through sheets of rain and ponds of water, I discovered what life really looks like when you can see through the windshield.

He got me the wipers -- something really special that proves he loves me very, very much.

Either that, or he's afraid of me ... or he just wants me think he loves me so I won't realize he's been admiring Mrs. Brown's lawn ....

Translator, can you help me out on this one?