Obviously Mothers' Day went without a hitch in this house.
This has everything to do with me being über-organised. Hard to believe given there is biological mother, step-mother, ex-partner's step-mother, current partner's mother, my gran, dead gran (you'd be surprised how she complains) and current partner Idris' gran to keep happy. Oh yes, then I'm a mother too.
Last Mothers' Day turned into
War of the Worlds. Idris was just an overstayed guest then who popped by for sex and supper. Wrongly, he thought that two years with a single mum and her son didn't extend to buying me a Mothers’ Day gift. Idris was out on his ear by noon.
It took three months of waiter service and lots of sleeping on the living room floor before he was blessed in the bedroom again. I’m a hard egg to crack. I am.
This Mothers' Day I bought each mother a card and nothing more. No fey promises from me. That was the girl of yesteryear. Well, last year when I ate two Sunday dinners between 3pm and six. It's behaviour like this which leads to one winding up with a fat arse.
A card. That's all. True, there was a muted response. But by god, I had five birthdays and an anniversary to fund. Mothers' Day didn't stand a chance.
Strange then, when, despite repeated offers to take a trip to the shops, Jack refused to go and buy me a present. I know this 'because the fairies that live at the bottom of the garden' told me.
Last year Jack leaped on my bed and rained plastic jewellery on my head. Multi-coloured bangles, enormous earrings, a bling-bling ring, all of which he'd bought with his pocket money.
This year.
What did I get?
A kiss.
A big kiss.
But a kiss all the same.
I asked: “Didn’t you want to buy me a present?”
He said: “I spent five pounds on you at Christmas.”
He’s his mother’s son through and through.
I'm disappointed. I'm spoiled with kisses everyday. This kiss was stickier and sloppier than all the others but still...am I no longer worth plastic tat?
I blame myself. Only days before I sat Jack down to watch the Orwellian
Animal Farm, (I specify this as I am aware there are other 'animal farms' in existence) then we settled down for a family debate on the ‘evils of capitalism’. Idris and I tenderly omitted our bitterness that despite both being well-educated, we were left behind in the race for wealth, to starve.
It was an interesting debate jam-packed with talk about fairtrade and landfills, the ridiculous nature of consumerism and the multi-nationals’ stranglehold on Easter, Christmas, Valentines' Day etc… of course this doesn't include Mothers' Day.
Mothers’ Day is about making mothers feel good by buying them presents.
Jack has more disposable income than me. He has £20 in the safe in his bedroom. How many 8 year-olds install a safe in their bedroom? And why shouldn’t he pay the window cleaner with his birthday money?
So I should be happy with a kiss....but a scarf, some perfume, a nice bag, a gift token, a book, flowers:
[
Flashback: Me to Jack on Nana’s birthday: “Do you know how many women in Africa contract cancer from growing supermarket flowers?”
Jack: “No.”
Me: “Loads. We’ll make Nana a present out of recycled clothes and cereal boxes.”] …but a potted plant.....anything!
If I were the grateful kind of mother I should be, I’d be happy with a kiss.
This has everything to do with me being über-organised. Hard to believe given there is biological mother, step-mother, ex-partner's step-mother, current partner's mother, my gran, dead gran (you'd be surprised how she complains) and current partner Idris' gran to keep happy. Oh yes, then I'm a mother too.
Last Mothers' Day turned into War of the Worlds. Idris was just an overstayed guest then who popped by for sex and supper. Wrongly, he thought that two years with a single mum and her son didn't extend to buying me a Mothers’ Day gift. Idris was out on his ear by noon.
It took three months of waiter service and lots of sleeping on the living room floor before he was blessed in the bedroom again. I’m a hard egg to crack. I am.
This Mothers' Day I bought each mother a card and nothing more. No fey promises from me. That was the girl of yesteryear. Well, last year when I ate two Sunday dinners between 3pm and six. It's behaviour like this which leads to one winding up with a fat arse.
A card. That's all. True, there was a muted response. But by god, I had five birthdays and an anniversary to fund. Mothers' Day didn't stand a chance.
Strange then, when, despite repeated offers to take a trip to the shops, Jack refused to go and buy me a present. I know this 'because the fairies that live at the bottom of the garden' told me.
Last year Jack leaped on my bed and rained plastic jewellery on my head. Multi-coloured bangles, enormous earrings, a bling-bling ring, all of which he'd bought with his pocket money.
This year.
What did I get?
A kiss.
A big kiss.
But a kiss all the same.
I asked: “Didn’t you want to buy me a present?”
He said: “I spent five pounds on you at Christmas.”
He’s his mother’s son through and through.
I'm disappointed. I'm spoiled with kisses everyday. This kiss was stickier and sloppier than all the others but still...am I no longer worth plastic tat?
I blame myself. Only days before I sat Jack down to watch the Orwellian Animal Farm, (I specify this as I am aware there are other 'animal farms' in existence) then we settled down for a family debate on the ‘evils of capitalism’. Idris and I tenderly omitted our bitterness that despite both being well-educated, we were left behind in the race for wealth, to starve.
It was an interesting debate jam-packed with talk about fairtrade and landfills, the ridiculous nature of consumerism and the multi-nationals’ stranglehold on Easter, Christmas, Valentines' Day etc… of course this doesn't include Mothers' Day.
Mothers’ Day is about making mothers feel good by buying them presents.
Jack has more disposable income than me. He has £20 in the safe in his bedroom. How many 8 year-olds install a safe in their bedroom? And why shouldn’t he pay the window cleaner with his birthday money?
So I should be happy with a kiss....but a scarf, some perfume, a nice bag, a gift token, a book, flowers:
[ Flashback: Me to Jack on Nana’s birthday: “Do you know how many women in Africa contract cancer from growing supermarket flowers?”
Jack: “No.”
Me: “Loads. We’ll make Nana a present out of recycled clothes and cereal boxes.”]
…but a potted plant.....anything!
If I were the grateful kind of mother I should be, I’d be happy with a kiss.