Mothers Day. Another commercialised sensationalised ploy by Hallmark and Interflora and soap companies alike to bring on the punters to throw their cash at the products to proclaim their love and devotion for Mothers that they probably don’t care too much for, see too often, or respect most other times of the year. It’s like Valentines Day, make it count all year – or don’t bother. One day just ain’t going to cut it.
I don’t send anything to my mother, Mother’s Day, birthday, Xmas, she doesn’t do the same for me either. Our relationship is severed. So we at least we can agree on one thing, insincere tokens are pointless.
My husband doesn’t send his mother a Mother’s Day card – she’s a bitch to be honest, so why bother with a faux gesture?
It’s like a Christmas card list. I actually send cards to my bin men, my neighbours, the guy that valets my car and the local Indian takeaway, the most random people. Because they do me a service. I’m grateful, I want to acknowledge them and I want them to have a good holiday regardless of religious beliefs. But I’ll be damned if I can be arsed writing cards to people that I couldn’t give two cents about any other time of the year.
Anyway, this year my kids came into the bedroom, marched in by their father holding some bits he’d bought in the city during his working week. I graciously thanked them and hugged them. That day they tidied their rooms and put their stuff in the dishwasher. That day – why not every day?
My daughter’s best friend was staying over. I like her immensely. She’s smart, witty, independent. Better than her other friends who smile shyly at me then swear like a sailor when they think I can’t hear.
We went out for the obligatory Mother’s Day lunch. My son was over tired so tended to the noisy side. My older daughter moaned in boredom, moaned about the expensive Italian food, and acted like a brat (for her friend’s sake I think), her friend was well behaved and polite. My youngest daughter refused to eat her risotto because it wasn’t as Daddy described and I just necked the red wine.
After lunch, I took my middle daughter and my older daughter’s friend into a favourite shop of mine. Trade Aid. It’s where goods are made from poor countries and the profits go straight back. There’s some beautifully made things in there. I told the friend she should pick some things out for her mother. As she hadn’t realised it was Mother’s Day and we were taking her straight home.
And that’s where the magic began. Firstly the girl was incredibly humble. She spent ages admiring the handiwork. The crafted items. Thinking about what her mother would really like. We looked at different hand made jewellery boxes, hand made chess sets. She admired every piece. She picked out a woollen made heart as well as a box with roses carved into it and then a pretty hand made card. Thought, love and appreciation went into it.
When we got her to her home I saw her mother for the first time in ages. It was then I learnt her mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer. But having already lost friends because they couldn’t handle it, she’d grown fearful about telling more people.
She felt like a social pyriar. It had been hard on her. She took the gifts from her daughter tearfully.
And there was the most beautiful part of the day, a bond between mother and daughter. An opportunity for the daughter to show her mother her love and regard for her in a way that might not have presented if it weren’t for the commercial thrust of the predetermined day.
The girl ended up staying another night, I offered so that she could have more rest. I’m driving her home soon so that I can spend more time with her mum and reassure her she’s not alone.
Maybe it’s not such a bad thing?