Mother’s Day


I have no idea where the invention of mother’s day came from, but I like it. One thing is for sure it has become a commodity, as a child I don’t remember there being endless window displays or commercials to remind us of mother’s day. It was simple cards and gifts made in school, being taken home on Friday afternoon with the glue still wet and sticky; daffodils from the garden and burnt toast on Sunday morning. One year my brother and I decided to do the breakfast in bed without any adult supervision, it was when flames came out of the toaster, that my brother decided dads help was needed; it is the thought that counts. The soggy cereal offering was a safer bet from then on in.

I am a mother now, and this year was woken by the sound of my youngest son talking loudly, in his running commentary obsession whilst playing Minecraft. I don’t do mornings very well and simply asked if he could wear his headphones to which I was greeted with a barrage of abuse that they didn’t work. I shut the door, made a cup of tea and read the Saturday Guardian that I had barely started yesterday, and enjoyed the relative peace.

Husband baked a cake yesterday, a very rich chocolate cake, which smelt delicious as it was cooking in the oven; it is in the tin waiting its grand unveiling, and I honestly haven’t looked or picked a bit off from the edge.

When my Gran was alive, there were a few Mother’s Day lunches that I cooked for us all, the boys would write a menu and we would lay the table in all our mismatched crockery and chairs with Grans tablecloth. I baked a Victoria Sandwich one year for tea and it caught round the edges, despite my best efforts at slicing off the very well done bits it still had a burnt taste to it, even though my Gran insisted it didn’t.

In the last few years since gran died, and watching my mum grieve, you are never too old to miss your mum.

Mother’s Day for me is about celebrating, when you have children you become known as x & x;s mum, your former identity no longer defines you. You become even more skilled in multi-tasking, love expands into your children in a way that you cannot be prepared for. You become a fierce tigress, protecting your cubs.

My mum has always loved me, cared about me, supported me and survived the teenage years with me. I know that I am blessed; I know that not every child is given love or cared about, and some children are damaged, harmed and hurt in ways that we would rather not think about. Who is to know what damage the mums of these children have experienced?

If you are lucky to have a mum who loves you, no matter what, accept that they are human, they may make mistakes, we all do; but don’t let petty arguments and the day-day niggles of life overshadow the big stuff. Spare a thought for those who have not been blessed with the love that you have, I know I will and I know I will tell my mum how much I love her.


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