I am my husband’s wife, I am not his mum. And I have my own mum and in my eyes this is her day.
I feel a bit sorry for all the dads of young children on Mother’s Day. For some reason, it has become their job to buy cards, gifts and book meals out for the mother of their children. From the Facebook gloat about the mulberry handbag (really!) that her six-month-old baby must’ve saved up to buy as a present to the pregnant friend who was upset that her unborn child didn’t get her a card, it all seems a bit over the top to me.
The special bit is from the kids, right? Like the awesome cards that get sent home from nursery that they have lovingly made themselves. Or going to the Mother’s Day Morning at nursery for your child to be the one that refuses to join in and screams through the whole thing. These are the precious things, not the designer handbags.
Don’t get me wrong I would love my husband to help the kids treat me to a small lie-in and an a cup of tea in bed. Sadly, the start of British Summer Time has kissed that extra-hour dream goodbye this year anyway. I’ll let it slide because I really love when the evenings start getting lighter. Oh and I also really love trying to persuade Martha it’s bedtime when the sun is still in the sky at 7pm. ‘But Mummy, it’s still light and so it can’t be bedtime. Let’s play mummies and daddies. I’ll be the mummy and you can be the pet rat.’ I digress.
Although in our house there is a slight caveat to my thought process it seems. And that is when I am preggers. The first Mother’s Day I was a mum myself I was not bovved and spouted off to him how I thought it was silly. So, the next year he stuck to this theme. Ah, but I was pregnant the next year, wasn’t I? And hormonal. And irrational. And everything was his fault. Cue a huge meltdown that I think has scarred him. I’ve seen envelopes arrive in the post this week that look like they’re housing card-size objects. Whoops.
So Mother’s Day for me is about my mum. Most people think they have the best mum in the world but I think I really do. And she is now the best Nana my two girls could ask for too. Nana is top of the tree in our house – a promise of a trip to Nana’s can solve any meltdown. Any. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: thank the lord for Nana.
We’re not ones for mushiness but here are a few highlights (the full list would be ridiculously long) of why she is better than me:
Supermum: If she comes to my house for two hours to babysit she manages to also clean the kitchen, wash the bottles, fold away the washing, do more washing, put the washing out to dry, mow the lawn (I kid you not), produce some pictures that they have all had fun making together and squeeze in a trip to the swings.
Me: Still happy that I’ve kept everyone alive. If I have a good day and the house looks a level up from a bomb site, my husband is guaranteed to say: ‘Your mum came over today then?’
Supermum: Despite not being the greatest cook (by her own admission, I’m trying to be nice remember) she would always put me first and let me have the less burnt toast.
Me: I’m not so generous with food and get pissed off when either of my daughters snaffle the last bite of a piece of cake we are sharing.
Supermum: When we all pop for a cup of tea on a Saturday afternoon (we need to get out of the house before we all kill each other and we weren’t wise enough to plan to do anything – again) and Martha whispers that she’d like to stay over at Nana’s, she says yes without hesitation.
Me: I bundle everyone else and all our belongings together and bolt out of the door.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mum.
The Tale of Mummyhood