America’s Next Top Mama

At our house, every day is Mother’s Day. That’s just the way we roll.

The morning begins with the arrival of trumpeter swans, who lay their eggs on satin pillows in the kitchen. That’s breakfast.

Generally, my wife, Posh, prefers her swan eggs scrambled and served over little tufts of caviar. We farm our own caviar these days — in the end, it’s cheaper. For that, we keep a beluga sturgeon in the master bath.

“Wow, your beluga is really getting big,” house guests are always saying.

“Thank you,” I say shyly. “That’s just the way we roll.”

As breakfast is cooking, what the kids like to do is braid their mother’s hair in the shape of her next husband, George Clooney. Known for always going the extra mile, the kids will lace in actual floral components — baby’s breath, rosebuds — then finish it off with a romantic misting of Glade air freshener.

After breakfast, they will lift her from the bed and shoulder her like Egyptian slaves to the relaxation pit we’ve prepared for her in the palace garden. When she is comfortable, the children will then kneel like footstools, so that their mother will have a place to rest her tired feet or ash her cigar. She will sip/suck her Champagne, then request more in that songbird trill of hers.

“Boy toy,” she will sing, “please bring me more of the bubbly.”

“Yes, my lady,” I will say. “At what temperature would you like it chilled?”

After that, the parade of gifts begins: diamond-encrusted cars, a gold statue of Tutankhamen launching his harpoon.

People who have witnessed Mother’s Day at our house always ask how these special gestures came to be. I tell them that when you really open your heart, Random Acts of Momness reveal themselves. They look at me like I’ve been drinking the grape again, which I usually have.

In truth, she is simply a sensational mom. When they open the Mothers Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio, they will have a Posh Wing. In it, there will be a timeline of her remarkable life.

It will explain how she married a little too young (in the sixth grade). One day, I’m helping her with long division, the next we’re hitched. For years, she rode on my handlebars to the dry cleaners and the grocery store. It wasn’t easy, but somehow we made it work.

Later, we were blessed with kids. To this day, I don’t really know where babies come from. I think it involves a certain amount of groping and too much Heineken. Regardless, the children arrived at regular intervals and without suitcases or any type of government ID. Still, we took them in.

Together, we raised them, and when I say “together,” I mean she did. I pitched in with dishes and dog care, car washes and lazy afternoons in the backyard. She took care of everything else — including two bankruptcies and the occasional fire.

The little angels — we were blessed with four, or is it five? — required a lot of care. When things went right, they were still a lot of work. When things didn’t, we tried to sell them. There were no takers. Even on Craigslist, no one wanted our kids. Have you ever not gotten an offer on Craigslist?

“Don’t take it personally,” I told my wife.

So we kept them, and we are super glad we did. Three of the four have grown into fine upstanding semi-adults. They still live with us and eat our food. They still borrow money for gas and plane fare. Actually, I’m not talking to two of them at this moment, but this too shall pass.

The fourth kid seems like he will stay 7 years old forever. You should’ve seen the look on his dear mother’s face the other day when he tried his first raw oyster. For the past two years, the little guy has eaten only three things: pizza, hot dogs and random stuff he picks off his own body. Now he was quaffing three raw oysters as his mother looked on in a mix of terror and relief.

“He’s eating! He’s eating!” she screamed.

“Actually, he’s now barfing,” I noted.

At which point, she broke into tears.

She cries a lot these days. Who can blame her? After 25 years, the laundry still comes at her like Pickett’s Charge. The bills? Like crows in a Hitchcock flick.

So Sunday, we will pamper her in every imaginable way. We will treat her like a queen — open her beers, light her Tiparillos. The things we do for that woman could almost fill a column.

Excuse me now; gotta run. The alpacas we raise to produce her finely textured sweaters need to be milked. Fortunately, the children are good about chores, especially tasks that involve herds of livestock.

“No problem, Dad!” the kids say when I tell them it’s time to milk the alpacas and start a new wheel of their mother’s favorite dinner cheese.

Because that’s just the way we roll.

chris.erskine@ latimes.com