Her man's more Bob Vila than Don Juan

Iknew I hadn't exactly hooked up with a Fabio long before I married my beloved Pat.

It was clear from that start that he was no Romeo or Don Juan and certainly didn't play Mr. Brady to my rendition of Carol during our courtship.

Being a quick study, I picked up on his unromantic side the first time he handed me a shovel and directed me toward a wheelbarrow, so I could help him prep the yard for our new home.

I certainly saw the light during the predawn hours of our honeymoon when the man pulled the blankets off me, yanked the pillow out from under my head and happily announced that we'd best be getting up because we were, and I quote, "Burning daylight."

Needless to say, he hasn't gotten in touch with his inner Romeo in recent years either. Why, just last Saturday I sidled up beside him as he worked in the garage and said, "You do know what tomorrow is, don't you?"

"I suppose," he responded with a disgusted shake of the head, "that they came up with another holiday to make good people go out and spend their hard-earned money."

Knowing that I'd already treated myself to a pedicure, a haircut and the makings of a summer wardrobe, I responded sincerely, "You don't have to buy me a thing."

"You don't mean that," he replied as he surely remembered his Valentine's Day faux pas.

"Oh, I mean it," I said. "All I want is the whole Mother's Day to do nothing. No cooking, no cleaning, no dishes."

"Wow," he said as he rubbed his chin and appeared to mull it over, "you're going to have to work hard and get it all done today then."

It's a testimony to true love that he lives and breathes.

Alas, he's a good man. Just this week he sprayed the yard for dandelions, changed the oil in my lawnmower, and although he was sure I could have hung the new wooden blinds in the great room all by myself, he did it for me with no complaint.

He's no Don Juan, but he certainly rivals Bob Vila.

Even though it was our anniversary, romance was certainly not on his mind last Monday night. With all of the finesse of Archie Bunker, he sat down in front of the TV with a large bowl of low-fat ice cream and the sports section and had the remote handy, so he could switch from one basketball game to the next.

"Isn't there anything good on?" I asked as I sat down and playfully tossed my hair.

"Well, yeah," he responded as he directed my attention to the TV as if to say, "Hello? Can you not see the game?"

"Can't we just for once watch something that doesn't involve a first down, a free throw, or A-Rod's abuse of steroids?"

Although he waited until a commercial, he began to channel surf and you can surely imagine my elation when he landed, ever so briefly, on "The Notebook," the greatest love story of its time.

"Oh, stop here!" I said with all of the eagerness of a woman in a diamond commercial. It was right at that part of the movie where the young woman opens her eyes and rolls over only to discover a note on the bedside table that read, "You looked so beautiful and peaceful that I just couldn't wake you."

"Imagine that!" I said with disbelief. I suppose it was hard for a woman such as me to believe that someone like that actually existed outside of my life with the morning man.

I didn't think he was paying attention, but apparently an idea dawned on him the next morning as he saw my face wrinkled against the pillow and heard the snore that was coming from my mouth. I suppose the little bit of drool only added to my beautiful appearance.

The kids said their father raced to the kitchen, at or around zero-dark-thirty and ripped a piece of paper off a yellow legal pad. They said he chuckled to himself and at one point actually shook his head in amusement as he wrote.

Quoting the amorous message from "The Notebook" almost word for word, Pat scrawled the note and signed it with, "Love, love, love, much love, PAT."

"I almost laughed myself sick," he said to me when I ambled into the kitchen later, sporting fuzzy red slippers, a bed head and a love note in hand.

I think that I'll stay in bed all day today.

That'll burn the daylight out of him.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch. com.