Mother’s Day for another year, been and gone. In year’s gone by it’s been a day full of expectations and disappointment. Because no gift, no matter how thoughtful and kind, expensive and loving, could really live up to whatever crazy idea I had in my mind.
Husband has had this theory for a while now. Even on his first Father’s Day he shunned the fuss, only requesting a sleep in. Claimed it was the same as any other Sunday. Only better because he could claim a nap without guilt and wouldn’t be forced to do the groceries.
I, of course, proceeded to ignore his protests and showered him with random stuff and a full day of activities. I’m sure he enjoyed it, but really, he would have been happy to have a few hours watching the football with no interruption.
Each year we (read me) try and do something special to mark the occasion, but admittedly it’s gotten harder in recent years.
Today there was no grand plans. It wasn’t deliberate, there’s just been so much going on that Mother’s Day slipped my mind. To a point that gifts for my own mum and MIL were sneakily bought while shopping with them yesterday, as Poss distracted them both by proceeding to touch *all* the things in a very expensive store. She took one for the team.
This morning I was woken by a coffee in bed kindly made by Poss, who then presented me with a card and a copy of my biography she’d written for me at school. My life distilled into one A4 page; I loved seeing what she thought was important enough to include. She then gave me exactly 12 hugs and kisses (don’t ask why, because I don’t know).
Breakfast at one of our regular Sunday morning haunts, then MIL and I escaped for a few hours and had our nails done, but to be honest, we would have done that anyway. We arrived home to do a million loads of washing in preparation for camp and Poss spent hours on FaceTime with a new friend.
Mum and I spoke on the phone, text messages were sent to other family and Poss had her Nanny here to watch her playing Minecraft for hours on end. That along was a gift, as it meant I didn’t have to feign interest. There are only so many square pigs you can look at in one day.
So apart from the card and present (I mean, you don’t get a biography written for you every day), it was pretty much like any other Sunday. And it was pretty much perfect. So much so, that I think we’ll do it this way again next year. Just don’t tell Husband he was right.