One day? For everything I do! What an insult! I need at least a week.
I made Standpipe swear a sacred oath NOT to buy me flowers or jewellery or anything else he thinks I might like on pain of dire offense and much ranting.
He kept his promise and I was happy. Until a few years ago, when he sat me down, and with many apologetic looks, explained that the children had reached the age of being excited about Mothers’ Day. Could I, would I, excuse him, and them, if they brought me daffs from the garden and breakfast in bed?
I supposed so.
Now they are old enough to sort it out themselves. One spent the miserable pittance we allow her on a decorative coaster with words that reduced me to tears. Another coloured-in a card and listed the reasons he thinks I am a worthy recipient. A third chose a gold coin from the gift shop of a historic house he’d visited with school.
I also received this poem. Obvs I am a mother, this child’s mother, and am unable to judge its merits with any of my new critical faculties.
I am astonished by these words. Did he really write this himself? Please don’t tell me that it’s a well-known and often-anthologised piece of verse. We parents need our illusions to sustain us through the crappy bits.
You are warm like a blanket
You always tuck me in till I’m snug
You are the peice of elegant sunset
who picks me up when I’m soggy and damp
When I’m ill you never rest
Oh mum oh mum rest forever
like you’ve never rested
Oh mum I love you strait
I have kept his spelling and lineation.
I am a bit worried that he wants me to rest forever, although ‘burn forever’ would be even more disappointing.
I think I know what he means. It’s a complex business being a mother, just as it is being a child.
Happy Mothers’ Day to everyone.