It’s Mother’s Day tomorrow. Or is it? Is it next week? No one knows. No one knows because Mum wants you to sort it out for yourself. The shops will confuse you because they’ve been getting ready for this for ages because you probably don’t want to miss the one day you show mum how much you care. The gift wrapping service has been running at our shopping centre for weeks. Is there even a gift wrapping service for Father’s Day? Gift wrapping sure is hard.
Mother’s Day kind of gives me the poops. There, I’ve said it. It’s another pigging day where I’m supposed to be grateful for everything I have but end up wishing everyone would just leave me in peace with some Netflix for the day.
I know of a family that classes Mother’s/Father’s Day as their day off. The other takes the kids out and lets them enjoy a day of peace and there was a time that I thought they were onto something. I know some people don’t like this idea, and they’ll forcefully remind you that such thoughts should be replaced with gratitude and appreciation for having children. That it’s a day we should thank the earth/universe/God for blessing us with our walking alarm clocks.
So before I completely spew all of this out for your reading pleasure, let’s just clear one thing up- I love my kids.
I appreciate my kids.
I know I’m lucky to have them.
Got it? Good. Because I’m half way through a smooth red and I’m right and I don’t want to hear otherwise. I’m grateful and appreciative and I really do know how lucky I am.
I love them, but the weeing, screaming, destructive little mess makers know how to push my buttons. And like most things that parents do, we make sacrifices for our kids, and Mother’s Day is no different.
You see, advertising companies and media make you believe Mother’s Day is about the Mother, but it’s NOT. Mother’s day is about the kids. And it’s really okay.
Let me explain…
A few years ago I got the poos because my Mother’s Day was spiralling out of control. It was going the same way as previous Mother’s Days, and in fact the way I can recall Mother’s Day when I was a child. There’s fighting, so much fighting. It starts with the choices for breakfast, the menu, the order of events, who’s in charge of what. Too many chefs and all that. They fight, they bicker and they lose all concept of what the day is supposed to be about.
The treasures can’t be blamed for the stink presents they purchase. There’s always an increase of useless junk on display in the shops in early May which apparently celebrates the glory of motherhood and the demise of any womanly, courageous being I feel mothers should be- lost in a sea of woolly socks and flannelette button up nighties. This is always the indication for me that M Day is on it’s way as May usually creeps up on me while I’m still trying to lose my “Christmas Weight”. May? Nooooooo…
It took a few Mother’s Days before I realised that the day is all about the kids learning to be grateful. It’s not about me getting stuff, it’s all about their, often dodgy, attempts at showing the person they love with all of their little chunky selves, how much they mean to them.
It’s often flawed, and messy, and full of lumps and bumps. It’s love dressed in a tantrum. These little people want you to have the best they can give, even if the best they can manage is a half-arsed, sneeze covered pancake with a side of vegemite and peanut butter and honey and popcorn, made with dirty hands and a cheeky smile.
The tide is low on a cold cup of tea, the toast is black and it’s all served with two spoons and a steak knife, but holy moly, their need to show you the love is so deep and strong.
My youngest has given me my Mother’s Day present three times this week. I have to keep reminding him that it’s next week, but he’s just so pumped to give me his gift that he can’t contain himself.
My other two will grab me the best gift they can get for $1 out of the $5 my husband will give them on Friday at the Mother’s Day stall and reward themselves at the canteen at lunchtime with their change. Seriously, you don’t want to be on canteen duty the day of a M-Day stall, those kids can budget like a Kochie when they need to. But those stingy little chunks know that they don’t need to buy you the best gift because you will be happy with the gesture. They know that our core is made of marshmallow and we will treasure anything they do for us. Because we see the best in them, we adore them, and we will always think they are amazing whether they give us
more cheap facewashers or aprons. And seriously, unless the M-Day stall is selling Sav Blanc, what’s the difference? I’m kinda proud that they’re stingy.
Sure they’ll fight, but they’ll do it because they are busting to show their love. They don’t know quite how to manage all of that just yet, so at the moment they do it the only way they know how.
And now I get it, it’s not my day, it’s their day. It’s their day to reverse the love and smother me with their own version of gratitude and appreciation. Sure it’s not always pretty, I’m not the mother in the poster of the shops with a pink fluffy dressing gown with 5 star breakfast in bed, being gifted with heated slippers and a new hairdryer to maintain my do. I’m the mother with an old t-shirt, bags under my eyes, a cold cuppa, and black toast surrounded by a whole heap of love. Just how I like it.
So yes, I’m grateful. And I’m lucky. And I’m so so excited to receive a whole heap of useless crap from my favourite people in the universe, with a sneaky Netflix session when they tire from all of their efforts later in the afternoon.
Happy Mother’s Day my friends. May you be surrounded with chunky little people who think you are the bomb, and a whole bunch of useless smelly things and woolly socks.
How lucky we are.