Discretion may well be the better part of valour, but Scott women, along with driving and pretending to like people we don't, find it hard to keep a secret.
Ever since Mother received mail on Government House letterhead, I've been bursting to brag.
"Please do not tell anyone about your honour until we advise you otherwise," said the notification.
Mum kept quiet.
I only told about 20 people.
Now the corgi is out of the handbag, I can revel in the fact that Mater has been made a Member of the New Zealand Order of Merit in the Queen's Birthday honours.
After 35 years of fundraising for everyone but herself, finally, recognition for her services to the community.
Some are unimpressed.
"Darling, my ancestors came to Otago in the first four ships," huffed the economist.
Mother-in-law equally failed to admit emotion to such a parvenu decoration.
"That's nice," she murmured distantly upon hearing the news, and then left immediately for Nepal.
Well, I for one, am terribly pleased, especially as my life is bound to go a lot smoother with a New Zealand royal honour this side of the family tree.
Although, I must admit to slight confusion.
What exactly is an order of merit? It sounds like one of those certificates kids get at end-of-year school assemblies which, in the absence of any real grades, say: "Thank you for coming."
Helen Clark thought feudal orders were a waste of space, abolishing dames and knight with a cry of "Viva la Republic!", only for John Key to bring them back again, much to the delight of the Monarchist League of New Zealand.
As a member is not a dame, we've taken to calling Mother the Duchess (she has substantial front and nicely turned cabriole legs) and her buff Edinburghian paramour the Scotch Chest.
I guess that makes the economist a Tallboy.
Enough with the furniture jokes.
However stolid, dust-attracting and robustly old-fashioned, an order of merit is still lovely - kind of a "good sorts" award from the Queen.
The orders' statutes outline certain heraldic privileges retained to this day, such as being allowed to inscribe the post-nominal title on our family shield.
It'll look fantastic etched beneath the family motto: Prodigo is Totus (Spend it All).
I didn't always appreciate the Duchess: when I was a teenager, her too-public profile was a source of constant, excruciating embarrassment.
You couldn't turn on a radio without hearing her voice.
For a shy girl such small-town notoriety was unendurable.
"I saw your mum on TV," kids at school would na-nah-na-nah (at my school, parents were not seen and rarely heard).
These days I'm proud to have proved a chip off the proverbial and my own daughter finds me absolutely mortifying unless I'm paying for lunch, so I figure I'm halfway to duchesshood myself.
A credenza perhaps.
Despite millions in the coffers of good causes, things haven't always gone smoothly for the Duchess.
"Do you feel the urge to say `I told you so' to the haters?" I asked mother last week, when the second letter came, proving it was all actually happening, and not an elaborate mail fraud culminating in a request she fly to Argentina to collect a suitcase filled with "documents".
"Do you feel like driving around the Octagon with your system up and your window down?""No.
I feel very strange," she said.
"It's kind of like you're above yourself looking down. Like it's happening to someone else.
"It's all very humbling."
Aw. Bless her little fundraising heart.
Of course you don't need a medal from the Queen to remind you that your mother is wonderful, but it sure helps.