Update: He forgot. I mean, plain forgot. I got nothing. Not even a “happy mother’s day”. I didn’t mention it. Later, the next day, he remembered, and offered to take me out the following weekend, but I said I wasn’t that bothered. I wasn’t.
Mother’s day. I’m not that bothered, it’s just another commercial opportunity. Or so I like to pretend. Actually, I’d feel a little left out if I didn’t get a card. Even though I know my son appreciates me, because, despite the frustrations of living with a young, almost-not-a-teenager man, he is appreciative.
Mother’s day in Britain is in fact far more than a card company invention. Traditionally, it’s the day (4th day in Lent – 3 weeks before Easter Sunday) that Christian worshippers visited their “mother” church. That is to say, the one they were baptised by, grew up with. It was a bit of a day off for people working a long way from home, especially servants. It also became a day to visit your actual mum, and to honour mothers every where. By the 1950’s, commercial interests had well and truly jumped on the bandwagon and it’s long been seen as a secular custom.
I’m not a Christian, and in theory, I’d rather be appreciated every day by being shown respect, and love and friendship bla bla bla. But in practice…. I WANT MY CARD! I have a collection of weird and wonderful homemade Mothers’ Day cards. Some are well planned, others are hastily put together. All are slightly bonkers, but very well received none-the-less.
I’d rather have bonkers than what’s on the shelves of the supermarket. And while I’m on the subject of supermarket mothers’ days… Why do mothers have to be confined to receiving crappy chrysanths , chocs, and body lotion? If I’m going to receive crap, I’d rather it was something that recognises me for the person I am, not a generic flower, choc, body lotion-loving imaginary human.
I don’t mind chocolate actually, but here’s a few things I’d rather have, should my son be reading this ….
A mix-tape made by your own fair hands (a Spotify playlist will do at a pinch) – a book (second hand is fine) – a can of lager – the washing up being done without me asking. That’ll do it. Ta love x
PS Apologies to anyone who loves Chrysanthemums. I’m not keen though, they smell of funerals.