This is a blog about being a Mum, so Mother’s Day obviously requires the obligatory Mother’s Day blog – in the form of a guide to Mother’s Day gifts.
***Grump warning.*** I’ve never been much of a Mother’s Day fan, because it is:
a) a cash cow blatantly invented by the nefarious greetings card industry, and
b) it sneaks up on me, sends me dashing madly to the nearest vendor to procure a shit card, which (in my purchase-induced relief and smugness) I subsequently fail to actually post, making me appear like the Bad Daughter. (This never seems to happen to my sister. Bitch.)
I may have thought – fleetingly – that becoming a mother would imbue the day with new significance. This didn’t really happen. In my house I think we’re all pretty happy when the motions of presentation and gratitude have been duly gone through, and we can all just get on with our day.
Breakfast in bed
This seems like a good idea but is in fact rubbish. I have no desire to eat cold toast or soggy cornflakes after they have been arranged on a tray and transported up the stairs. I like my toast hot and my cornflakes crunchy, and goddammit these are the only things that make my life worth living at 6.30am. I have one breakfast rule, and that is that once the milk hits the flakes I will not be available for comment, toilet trips, containment of spillages or any emergency short of ACTUAL FIRE until they are gone. If this cannot be achieved the WHOLE DAY WILL BE RUINED. For everyone.
Tea is also out because of the scald risk to the baby, who appears to think steaming mugs are in fact the baby holy grail. And I have no desire to have crumbs in my bed, which I frankly cannot be arsed to change and will therefore be getting stuck between my toes for the next two months.
Theoretically amazing, but practically disappointing. Whether you like it or not, you have now been trained to wake up circa 6am, and you will never be able to go back to sleep. This will be particularly true as the family breakfasts noisily and ineffectually downstairs, creating a scene akin to a warzone, all the while yelling and shushing each other.
They will be collectively so proud of this achievement you will be expected to express gratitude for at least the next week. So not worth it.
I HATE flowers. I don’t have any appropriate receptacle for them, nor an appropriate surface to display them that isn’t covered with kid paraphernalia and IS safe from grabby baby hands. I also can’t arrange them, so they’ll never look as nice as they do in the packaging. They will die slowly in a corner looking sadder, saggier and more colourless by the day, in a vicious parody of my own body. I find this singularly depressing. They also take up an inordinate amount of room in my already bulging-at-the-seams wheelie bin when I finally get sick of looking at them and chuck them out.
Look, I can barely keep the two children alive, let alone something that can’t even scream when it needs sustenance. Don’t make me a murderer. It’s a very bad example to set for the kids.
Sorry, I don’t like chocolates either. Oh, I like CHOCOLATE, I’m not crazy. It’s just that I’d rather have it in a plain old Dairy Milk bar or a nice milk chocolate digestive. I don’t want it in little hard lumps that don’t taste like the cheapo stuff I’m used to, and have been contaminated with various other flavours and textures I could cheerfully live without. Don’t get me wrong – I’ll eat them – but I’ll be wishing they were chocolate digestives and resenting you just a little bit for making me consume unnecessary calories I’m not even enjoying.
The best thing would be for the husband to buy HIMSELF a pack of chocolate digestives, and just leave them casually on the side so I can gradually consume as I happen to pass, blame him, and not have to confront my own greed.
This is the olfactory version of polishing a turd. I’m wearing tracky bottoms, my hair’s a mess, I’m in the midst of a hormonal breakout, I’ve been up since 4.30am and I still haven’t made it into the shower. My base scent is eau de spit-up and sweat. No amount of expensive smelly is going to mask any of these facts.
I grew out of stuffed toys at around 13, and I do not understand why they are considered appropriate Valentine’s or Mother’s Day gifts. There are more stuffed toys in this house than I can shake a stick at already, and I am expected to know the exact location of each and every one of them at any given moment, when the bigger small person suddenly remembers their existence (for the first time in a year) and cannot live a second longer without their immediate presence. The last thing they need is MORE company.
I’m not a monster – these are, in fact, acceptable Mother’s Day gifts. I know they’ve probably been made in a production line by Sue at nursery (who may have spelt something wrong and has almost certainly misused the apostrophe) and I know that they’ve probably been cursorily decorated by a completely random child. They’re still cute.
However, I do also reserve the right to chuck them in the bin at some point in the future. I hadn’t realised what prolific artists small children are, and apart from a few seminal pieces of developmental significance I literally can’t keep everything. Most of the miscellaneous piles of crap around my house consist of ‘art’ and every now and again I just have to CULL.
Now we’re really getting somewhere! Just make sure both husband and children have special bling training, and plenty of direct hints. Possibly magazine cuttings and a mood board. Otherwise you’ll end up with something shit you’re then forced to wear constantly by the children in order to prove your love for them.
Also good. Remember, this isn’t sophisticated bottle of red to share with the hubby time. This is the time for pink, sparkly quaffing pop! Mmmm. Mummy juice.
Ah hah. The pinnacle of Mother’s Day gifts! Yes, have lots of lovely family time together, celebrating your excellent Mothering work. And then get rid of them. Send them out with Daddy with strict instructions not to return for a good two hours, when they can come and wake you up and have lovely mid-afternoon cuddles in bed.
Miraculously, this precious rest and time to yourself may in fact turn you into the mother they (and you) always wanted you to be! At least for a few hours. Win win win.