Another first down

Tough day at the office. Really tough.

Mother’s Day started beautifully. I lay in bed listening to pancakes being made in the kitchen. Elsie and Maeve had brought in a colourful menu full of options and I ticked pancakes because kids like pancakes and I waited in bed because kids like serving breakfast in bed on Mother’s Day.

And I thought, how cool is this?

I thought about my Mum and I was so happy.

I had already followed all of the links on Facebook to articles about how hard Mother’s Day can be for some, and how ’narrow-minded’ and ‘inconsiderate’ marketers’ emails demanding we ‘spoil Mum this Mother’s Day’ act as reminders for those same people to do something they can not do.

Those emails hadn’t felt like reminders for me; I’ve never needed help  remembering she’s gone. But today, I decided, laying in bed and enjoying the sounds from the kitchen, even if I couldn’t spoil my mum, I could certainly still celebrate and commemorate her. And I could celebrate our kids for making me a mum. 


And actually, while I think about it, I’m happy for those who are celebrating and spoiling their mothers today. The joy and appreciation they feel is no less valid or worthy of acknowledgement than the grief and emotions felt by those writing the articles and about whom images are being shared on social media: those who have lost their mothers, those who have lost children, those with strained relationships, those who have chosen not to be mothers and those who yearn to be mothers.

Wow, this is a whole lot easier than I thought. What’s with all the ‘thinking of you this Mother’s Day’ messages that people had been sending me? This was obviously going to be a really good day.

The pancakes were the same recipe that we always use, but they were more delicious than ever. Anthony said he put in extra love this time. As I marvelled again at how nice they were, Maeve suggested that next time, I try making them with extra love. 



We got ready to go into town for lunch with Anthony’s mum.

But when we got in the car, I felt it coming. And driving into town, it felt like I was being hit over the head.

“You can’t go and see your Mum for lunch,” taunted the scenery as we headed south instead of north.

“Too bad you’ll never be doing this,” smirked the pub doorway as a lady helped her elderly parents inside for lunch.

And that was it. I was completely undone.

I cut my Mother’s Day short immediately after tea, when Anthony and the girls stopped me and said they’d do the dishes and get the school uniforms onto the clothes horse in front of the fire.

I crawled to bed, knocked and belted, and lay waiting for this first Mother’s Day without my Mum to be over.


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