There was no soft, warm glow. No white linen clothing. No airbrushed looks or ‘I’ve just stepped out of a salon’ hair. There was no dreamy sleep-in followed by breakfast in bed.
There was a 6:20 thump and bump, a blinding bedroom light switched on followed by a School Boy howl. There was a Baby who heard this and woke before he was ready. There was a last minute dash to the shops for breakfast ingredients. There was hollandaise that didn’t quite make it and poached eggs that dispersed freely in the water, unable to be rescued.
There were many reminders directed the School Boy’s way about the significance of this day and the importance of ‘being nice to mum’…please (fallen on profoundly deaf ears). There was a walk beside a river to the tune of whinging, whining and deliberate sloshing in puddles in new sneakers. There was chaos, mayhem, madness. It was just another day really.
To be fair, there were a couple of lovely little gifts from the boys. The School Boy had taken a gold coin from his own wallet to purchase a fridge magnet at the stall for me. He had written that “I love mum because she macs dina”. And the Baby had smudged some green hand prints below a cute poem for me to reflect on.
But really, Mother’s Day? One day in the entire year that our grueling work is acknowledged formally – cheers. Has anyone dared suggest that the best gift a mother could get is to spend a few precious hours in solitary confinement?
Mother’s Day five years on. Reality bites.
