A week or so ago, right before Mother’s Day, the missus and I took my mom and dad out to dinner at a local Mexican chain. Getting my folks to go out has gotten increasingly difficult over the years, but the joint was having a fundraiser for the neighborhood Catholic school, and despite their age my folks just cannot stop putting kids through Catholic school.

Though it was my mom’s birthday, my parents didn’t know they were being treated to their fajitas until I snatched the bill and quietly dispatched it with my credit card. This was one of those rare moments when I felt like a real grown man, because as I was recently discussing with some friends of mine, it seems like people my age never grab the check for the whole table. When I was a kid, we’d go out with my parents’ friends, the check would arrive, and inevitably an asinine verbal slap-fight would break out as one man took it upon himself to get everyone’s dinner.

“I’ve got this one!”
“No, no! You can’t! I won’t stand for it! Let me get it!”
“No, no! I want to pay! You get the next one!”
“C’mon, now! Don’t do that! I wanted to spend $150 tonight, a lot! Give it to me! Oh, I’m very serious!”
“Oh, we’re arguing! Oh, each of us feels very strongly, and it’s fun! I will feed your wife and children this day! It means everything to me!”

And as a kid, I would sit there and look at these crazy people pretending like they wanted to buy the entire table’s lobster knowing that the father-shaped man to my left could only be an impostor; earlier in the day I had asked for $.75 for a G.I. Joe comic and found myself spontaneously on trial. But apparently, that was What Grownups Did. I think about it every so often as an adult, because every time a bill arrives at the table when my peers and I are out today the first person to pick it up goes, “Let’s see, Bill had the salmon, right? And John had three beers, if I recall… Jim, I believe you had two of the seven potato skins, right? Two and a half, you split one with Tom?”

Don’t get me wrong; you don’t see me whipping out the Visa most nights any quicker than anyone else. With my folks, though, it seemed like the right thing to do. It was Mom’s birthday, and they have certainly footed their share of my bill up to this point, G.I. Joes notwithstanding.

Of course, as I was also recently discussing with those same friends, when you offer to buy your dad dinner, he basically takes it as some sort of direct challenge to his manhood. Your thoughtful gesture essentially means, “You, old man, are no longer expected to be able to take care of your family. It was probably nice to be the provider once, but the nurse will wheel you back to your room while I handle this.” Luckily, I kept the pride-wound to a minimum by having my credit card handy and elevating the payment to a kind of magic trick; “Hey Dad, what’s that, ohhh I’m paying it’s too late the bill is gone already look at that.”

I don’t have time, you see, for the slap-fight bullshit. I’m not saying “I’ll buy” in the hope that someone will talk me out of it. I’ll never say “oh no, please, let me pay this time” knowing that the other guy isn’t going to let me. You will always have a pretty good idea what I want; it will be easily identified as the thing that I said I wanted.

As I discovered last weekend, this principle continues to be lost on many people. I did not, it turns out, learn it at home.

After our Mexican dinner, on the way to their car, I said to my mom, “Hey there, matriarch, we got ourselves a Mother’s Day coming up on Sunday. What sounds good? What do you want to do for your big day?”

My mom said to me– my mom clearly, explicitly, and literally said to me and at least two witnesses– quote: “Oh, pfffft! Mothers Day. Big deal. It’s just another Sunday. You can call your sister and see if you two can work something up, but now that she has a baby she considers Mother’s Day ‘her day’ and she already told me she has plans that day. So whatever, Mother’s Day. Pfft, sheesh.”

“All right,” I said, “we’ll get together later in the week then. Lunch or something.”

On Mother’s Day, I called Mom to wish her well, talked to her for half an hour, reiterated the lunch plan, and hung up pretty satisfied with how the whole thing had gone. My sister hadn’t yet called her when we talked, so I even got to check the “Good Kid” box and pat myself on the back. Pfft, Mother’s Day, big deal. My mom is so cool.

So having said all that, I imagine it is needless to say that neither of my parents were speaking to me last week because I didn’t go over with a cake and a brass band on Mother’s Day.

You knew this was coming five paragraphs ago, right? You are more savvy in the ways of the world than I, dear reader. You have learned that “I insist you absolutely go to no trouble for me” actually means “call the florist, for bullshit head games are a delightful merriment.”

It took my dad three days to calm down enough to yell at me. Which was awesome, because for those three days I didn’t know anything was wrong. (Count that as your lesson for the day: in order for the silent treatment to be effective, it has to be announced.) Our call was brief but followed the standard 1990s young-Jim, old-Jim script, with me listing the logical bullet points in my favor and him repeating his position as if I were not actually on the phone.

“Dad, I talked to Mom for half an hour Sunday, and she never mentioned any–”
“No card? No visit?”
“Dad, we’re going out to lunch next–”
“No card; no visit.”
“You were standing right there when she told me–”
“No card! No–”
[hangs up; does deep breathing exercise; takes aspirin; opens web browser, types “untraceablehandguns.com”]

This brand of old-age dadcrazy weighs heavily on me as I prepare to become a dad myself. Because I must say, after this? If he thinks Mother’s Day was a letdown, Father’s Day is gonna put him in the ground.

As for Mom, I cannot imagine wanting something and then declaring the opposite in the hopes that everyone will see my secret, tender heart and do it anyway. Is this why people keep throwing me all those f***ing surprise parties? I’m not testing how well you know me. Your gift to me is not unlocking my fiendishly devised word puzzle. I’ll know you love me when you say “Jim, I love you” and/or buy me an Xbox. Those games, I’m interested in playing.