MOTHER’S DAY. A DAY WHEN SO MANY POOR, HELPLESS MEN WILL GET IT WRONG AS THEY INNOCENTLY (OR DESPERATELY) BUY GIFTS ON BEHALF OF THEIR KIDS.
Four Christmases ago, I cried on Christmas Day. I sobbed actually. Because Daddy Pig had forgotten to get me a ‘To My Mummy’ card on my first ever Christmas as a mother. GASP. My parents and sister will remember the spectacle (my reaction) well. In fact, this still gets mentioned. A lot.
When I told this story in the weeks after, everyone empathised with me. Friends, most of who all got cards, agreed that there was no worse crime than this. How could he? What was he thinking? Daddy Pig should be shot at dawn. Or something like that.
Four years on and I have mellowed. A lot. And so as Mother’s Day approaches I am neither expectant nor hopeful nor unrealistic. Yes I’ve waved a leaflet in Daddy Pig’s face with details of a facial I’d quite like. I’ve said I’d quite like breakfast in bed. But when Sunday comes, honestly, I won’t be worried or surprised if neither one happens.
Because Mother’s Day, like Birthdays and Christmases, like Valentine’s Day isn’t a test to be passed. In this respect most poor, helpless men will get it wrong, as they innocently or desperately buy gifts on behalf of their kids. Carnations, when she likes Gerberas. Chocolates when he knows she’s on a diet. ABBA CDs because some dreadful TV advert promised it would make her Mother’s Day (Boys – it won’t. Not ever). For lots of us, Mother’s Day will have nothing to do with our kids, who are still too young to acknowledge it themselves. It will just be a day that proves how little he really knows us. Or how little he must love us. At least, that’s what we will think when we’re feeling sorry for ourselves.
So this year, Daddy Pig, you’re off the hook. 100%. No catch, no judgement, no joke. If you can manage two slices of toast in bed, well, I wouldn’t say no. But if, instead, Sunday morning brings the usual chaos and two little girls into my bed far earlier than I’d like, who force me to watch that dreadful Barbie movie, I will be ok with that. I will be more than ok with that, actually.
Of course, as you don’t often follow my blog, you’ll probably never read this. Which is such a shame, as I could have saved you all that worry. All that effort. All that frantic last-minute running around tomorrow trying to remember where you put that facial leaflet.
Oh well. I did try.
Picture courtesy of cheezburger.com