Friday, 28 March 2014

Smothering Sunday

     I have been reliably informed not to expect much on Mothers Day. We have a big summer holiday coming up, and all available funds are being diverted towards that. To be honest, I’m not massively bothered. The things that I want can’t really be bought in any case. Just in case any of the three Blondies are reading this, here’s my handy guide to what I really would like to receive.

     Not a lie in. I don’t want a lie in. Lie ins in this house always end up the same. The Girl tiptoes into our bedroom, whispers in my ear ‘MUMMAY! HUNGRAY!’ Alistair stirs, mumbles. I keep my eyes squeezed closed, and pretend to be asleep. ‘MUMMAY!’ Alistair rolls over, mumbles sleepily ‘THE GIRL! LET MUMMY SLEEP! COME AND GET INTO THE MIDDLE OF THE BED! AND SLEEP FOR A BIT LONGER!’ The Girl delicately replies ‘HUNGGGGRAAAAYYYY!’ Alistair whispers back ‘OK I’LL GET UP IN A MINUTE! JUST BE QUIET SO YOU DON’T WAKE MUMMY UP! SHE’S HAVING A LIE IN!!!!’ By this time I am wide awake and silently, poisonously furious to no longer be sleeping, and get up to feed The Girl. Alistair then says ‘Darling? What are you doing up? Go back to bed, have a lie in.’ My eyes narrow, my lips tighten and I hiss ‘I’m AWAKE now.’ So I don’t want a lie in. I want sleeping pills. Pills that will knock me out for upwards of twelve hours. And perhaps an afternoon nap on the sofa.

     Alcohol. Wine will do the trick nicely.

     Food. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy. A Pot Noodle and a bag of Mini Cheddars. Just as long as I’m not the one making it, and more pertinently, the one who has to clean up afterwards.

     I know it’s Mothers Day. But can we make it Fathers Day instead? So that if The Boy is sitting next to Alistair in the dining room, and I’m upstairs having a shower, The Boy doesn’t get off the sofa, amble upstairs to me, and say ‘Muuum? Can I have a cup of tea?’ resulting in the inevitable response of ‘You have TWO parents! Ask your father to do it!’

     Alcohol. Gin is good.

     I would quite like, at least once, to be able to have a wee undisturbed, and without having to chat about Moshi Monsters/Monster High/Animal Jam/CBeebies. A small thing, but a distant memory.

     Alcohol. I’m fond of Pimm’s.

     No chocolate. I’m really not a massive fan. I don’t mind it, but I don’t really buy it for myself, and massive slabs of the stuff have never really held any attraction. If you feel you ought to buy me some, then a Double Decker is fine. But really, I’d prefer wine gums.

     Alcohol. I quite like cider.

     I don’t want anything shop bought that in any way references ‘Mum’ ‘Mummy’ or ‘Mother’. I know I am a mother. Believe me, I know. It’s hard to escape knowledge of this, especially when the three of you are at home, and I can’t hear myself think, or walk across a room without standing on a Lego brick, or have a single day when I’m not battling the ever growing washing pile. Even the times when I’m on my own, I know I am a mother. All I have to do is look at the stripy stretchmarks on my boobs, or catch sight of my ‘wobbling and withered tummy’ (thanks to The Boy for that description). I know I am a mother.  I don’t need shop bought cycnically marketed tat to remind me of it.

     Alcohol. Baileys. A Baileys coffee is a good thing.

     No ‘funny’ presents. No ‘novelty’ presents. It’s just more crap to fill the house with, when we’re already teetering under an avalanche of toys and stuff I’m not that keen on in any case. Let’s face it, it’s stupid, it’s pointless, I won’t find it amusing in the slightest, it’ll never get used. And I will resent you massively for frittering away money we don’t have (according to you). A home made card, cuddles, and ‘I love you’ is enough.

    Alcohol. I’m really not fussy.

     Food. Actually, I don’t even mind if you buy the raw ingredients for a meal and I end up cooking it. Really, it’s fine. What I do want is to be able to cook, undisturbed, in my kitchen, without the three of you leaning against cupboards I need access to, moving things I’m about to pick up, and ‘helping’ me by stirring things that don’t need to be stirred, then knocking over the saucepan of sauce I’ve just spent an hour preparing. I enjoy cooking for you. But I cook best when I’m not being asked ‘What are we having? When will it be ready? How long will it take? And how long is an hour? Is it ready yet? What are we having?’

     Alcohol. I’d even settle for a pint in a beer garden. Really.

     I love you three very much. You make me happier than I ever knew it was possible to be. You light up my life, make me cry, make me laugh, and I can’t bear to be away from you. But on Mothers Day, please just give me a little space, please.


     And alcohol. Obviously.

3 comments:

Marina Sofia said...

Heartfelt - I hear ya! I remember one lady (who was perhaps too far removed from her child-bearing days to remember clearly) telling me: 'The sweetest sound you will ever hear is the sound of your child's voice calling you Mama...' But by the time they have called me that the 101st time that morning and I've lost my train of thought, my sentence, my glasses for the umpteenth time, it is anything but sweet!

Lucy Benedict said...

Haha! I spent Wednesday out with The Blondies going round museums. I ended up feeling as though I'd spent the whole day conducting two conversations simultaneously... Also The Boy has developed a new habit of tapping me on the arm seven or eight times to get my attention. I am BRUISED.

Sam said...

Yep alcohol would be good! Feeling a bit frazzled right now! I once posted a comment on Facebook saying "would it make me a very bad mother if I said that the best gift I could get for mothers day would be some time away from my kids?!" and one of my 'friends' actually, with no irony, (and this is someone with a son the same age as my eldest) said "yes it does". Words fail me...