Some Mother’s Do Ave Em

Mother’s Day is coming. It’s the day where grown children dust off their old dears and take em to a garden centre. Or the pub.

As a society, we pay homage to our mother’s – acknowledging their sacrifices of body and mind. Body because the average mother’s stomach looks like a deployed airbag once it’s housed a couple of babies. The bigger the baby, the bigger aftermath. Trust me, I know!

Mothers will declare that they love their stretch marks because they remind them how lucky they are to have been blessed with children. Mothers wears these battle scars with pride. But occasionally after having consumed the best part of a box of Shiraz, they can be found slumped over an old photo of their teenage selves sporting crop tops and single chins.

They jab at the picture with a Wotsit and slur, ‘Thash uhsed to be me!’

Mind because all mothers succumb to insanity at some point.

Like millions of mothers, I’ve woken up on Mother’s Day to cards being thrust in my face, alongside cremated toast, anaemic looking tea and flowers that look suspiciously like next doors tulips.

Cards such as this one where I’m depicted as a svelte looking Princess and for some reason – blonde.

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For a while I was on a pedestal. This would change.

They mutated into teenagers – that’s why it changed.

I was turfed off my pedestal to make way for Nintendo, Cricket and South Park.

One memorable Mothers Day, my middle son kicked open the bedroom door and presented me with his card and a mug of tea. He was older by this time and the tea had evolved into something actually resembling tea.

I noted that there was nothing from my oldest child.

My ovaries shrivelled a bit.

21 hours of utter agony giving birth to him – complete with enema, intermittent vomiting, a seriously pissed off midwife who was bearing the brunt of a staff shortage, three stitches, having to walk like John Wayne for the next two weeks and the MOTHER of all haemorrhoids which to this day still gives me gyp. Miffed doesn’t begin to cut it.

My stretch marks flamed bright red (like Harry Potter’s scar when Lord Volderface was close by) and my Farmer Gile started itching like a bitch – always does when I’m stressed.

Nostrils flared, I flounced downstairs in my dressing gown and fluffy slippers to unleash Mothergeddon on my first born.

I plotted my revenge.

I would refuse to wash his cricket kit. Let him wash his own sodding jock strap. Ha!

And never again would I drive him around to deliver his papers because he was late and in danger of a docking of pay.

Then I heard the front door open and close.

A few minutes later, he walked in and placed an envelope on the mantelpiece. He looked shifty. He looked very shifty.

One solitary word on the envelope.

Mother

I opened it to find an untitled card with a old fashioned lady on the front.

I looked inside and this, dear reader, is what I saw.

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His dad was walking past. He glanced at it and casually said, ‘You’re dead, Son’.

It was half way through Mother’s Day and the Co-op had sold out of cards – so he’d improvised. Bless ‘im.

Once my eye stopped twitching –  I saw the funny side.

All I ever wanted to be was a mother and if I leave this world having accomplished only that, I’ll die happy.

 

To Mother’s everywhere – I salute thee.

Mother’s hold their children’s hands for a short while, but their hearts forever. ~ Unknown

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