This week my lonely letter box, the one that has been distinctly lacking in top secret online shopping deliveries, because of a little thing I like to call our bank balance, instead has been inundated with catalogues awash with a myriad of fabliss ideas for Mother’s Day.
And the word awash seems irritatingly appropriate (and the word fabliss decidedly less so) because apparently the day that gives pause to recognise all the wonderful things that motherhood represents is best celebrated with small kitchen appliances.
Don’t get me wrong, it was an exciting day when a Dyson stick vac entered our lives on one of the 364 days of the year that isn’t Mother’s Day. I no longer had to get down on my hands and knees with the dustpan and brush to sweep crushed toast crumbs out of every nook and cranny of our household. This was a theoretical win for my lower back and the knees of every pair of pants I own. Sometimes I even use the $600 glorified dust buster instead of just balefully living amongst the remnants of my children’s inability to successfully transfer food from their plates to their mouths. Unless it’s run out of charge, in which case, it sits in the laundry for three weeks with flat batteries, next to the charger, until I make the mistake of buying cruskits again. But, I hasten to add, a vacuum cleaner does not a Mother’s Day gift make, thank you very much Target and/or Harvey Norman catalogue.
So yes, I confess to feeling moderately irritated when the same catalogues, featuring the same “just for mum” tag lines that appear at this time every year, came streaming in (interspersed throughout the bills I refuse to open and important pizza menu paraphernalia) and all the things mum could ever possibly want for Mother’s Day were either cleaning and cooking appliances or plushy dressing gowns alongside Nora Roberts novels. Naturellement.
Ok, so maybe that is actually a somewhat accurate reflection of my life, and maybe I have been known to annihilate budget cuts of meat in a slow cooker and call it making dinner whilst still in my dressing gown at 4pm, but that’s just the mundane reality of my every day life! Is that how I want to be celebrated? Not particularly.
You know what I do want though?
And lots of it. With home made hot chocolate fudge sauce and possibly a side serving of rocky road.
Sadly, this is probably not going to happen, not least of all because I stood at the bench top eating my lovingly home crafted hot chocolate sauce that no one else in my family knew existed yesterday at 3:47pm and now there’s none left.
So, instead. Kiddies. I don’t want much for Mother’s Day; love, some flowers and/or an item of Lorna Jane (in)active wear will do nicely if time permits. Or nothing. Whatevs. (Except not nothing please).
What I would like however, are these things for the rest of my human existence.
- If you find your craft in the recycle bin, rather than being outraged that I should want to rehome one or two of the of twenty seven egg cartons with doilies stuck on them that came home from kindy last week, please recognise my efforts as a good citizen and environmentalist and instead commend me for not putting it in the regular bin. I love you and your endless and not-at-all-annoying ability to craft, make and create things out of kitchen refuse (I’m looking at you Mister Maker) but there are only so many shelves in my house I am willing to relinquish to repurposed Timms coffee bag boxes covered in excess glue and styrofoam packing peanuts. If you make me a Mother’s Day card, however, I promise to keep it on the mantle probably until Christmas, let’s be honest, and then for at least a further 4-5 years in a drawer.
- If daddy is in the kitchen, and this is a novel concept I know, instead of specifically seeking me out while I’m probably doing a poo and asking me to make you a snack, you could….ask daddy. (Hushed silence). Note: I would say “make it yourself for the rest of eternity”, but they’re only 4, 4 and 17 months so we have limitations to work around.
- Eat your dinner without mentioning even once the smell and/or taste of it with negative connotations. Unless if it’s that stir fry I made last night, because I agree, that was shithouse. You have my sincerest apologies for thinking I knew better than the cooking instructions on the packet of rice stick noodles. Won’t happen again. Except when it does.
- If and when I break into an amazing, uninhibited dance solo during the Go Jetters theme song, please look, if not impressed, then at the very least amused. Either or.
- Please provide me with a solid commitment from you to play with Duplo until you are age 35 so the amount of money we have invested in owning the world’s supply of Duplo does not engender feelings of resentment in me later in life.
- And one final request, for the love of God, if we go to the zoo and I say you’re three and you know you’re four… Keep your mouth shut God dammit!!! There’s no “i” in team but there are several “(yo)u”s in “staying home forever and never doing anything fun ever again if you publicly humiliate mummy”.
Love you long time and here’s to peeing without an audience, and the only butt you have to wipe being your own, should that day ever come! Secretly I’d probably miss having someone to talk to whilst undertaking the tedious task of urination, it’s called a “we(e)” for a reason right?