It’s that time of year again. Another day to commemorate something or other incredibly meaningful. But this time it’s not International Day of Happiness (that was last week apparently), World Health Day (that’s next week, if you’re interested), or Global Wind Day (this one’s in June, if you celebrate making wind). No, today is all about Me. It’s Mothering Sunday, again. Gosh how quickly time flies. And this year is no different to the past 8 as Mum.
As tradition dictates (in my household at any rate), it is customary for Mum to politely suggest that the following T’s & C’s are adhered to, on this most joyous of days:
- A lie-in, of significant length (not simply long enough for the kids to be fed, watered and set up in front of the TV for the morning).
- Breakfast in bed (that’s breakfast -a full English is not necessary, but then neither is a singular mug of tea), preferably on a tray, single stemmed rose optional.
- A decent present (hand picked please, with a clear element of thought, surprise and a degree of taste – if that’s possible).
- Flowers. A bouquet is preferable but a bunch will do, as long as a) they are not purchased from the local Shell and b) they are not the deceptively half-dead ones from the reduced bucket. He may be fooled by the price but I certainly won’t be.
- A pleasant day out, where a “day out” is defined as longer than a token trip to M&S for a second mug of tea and a fancy slice of their finest two-tiered Red Velvet, but shorter than any journey in which the three terror tots have time to ask if we are nearly bloody there yet.
- A home-made cake. Now this is a tall order, especially when a) your offspring can’t spell flour from flower and b) your diet permits only one helping of sugar, carbs, gluten and saturated fats per week. OK, so scrap the cake.
- A meal. It is worth noting here that “a meal” does not specify by whom it should be produced. However, as long as I don’t have to make it and he doesn’t try to make it, then there is some degree of flexibility here. The usual Saturday night Indian or Chinese suspects will suffice, if, by this point, he is totally lacking in inspiration.
- A steamingly hot bath, run by someone else (I’ll accept anyone, except a minor), luxuriated with extremely over-priced and richly indulgent bubbles.
- A massage for medicinal purposes only, where neck and shoulders are the limit. A wandering hand won’t be tolerated and is quite simply, below the belt.
- An early night, alone. * It should be noted here, that even despite full compliance with all of the aforementioned, this is unlikely to warrant any sort of “payment in kind”. His hard work will be rewarded (one day), but not tonight, at the expense of a good night’s sleep.
- A gold medal. ** Addendum in lieu of the scrapped home-made cake at point 6**. He seems to think he should earn a medal for emptying the dishwasher once a year. If that’s so, I’m owed a whole pile of gold.
Granted my Other Half will say I’m pushing it with the small print. But I say, all Mums of the Modern Era will back me up here, so stuff T’s and C’s, we may as well call them The Ten Commandments of Mothering Sunday – written in stone and non-negotiable. And in my defence, if you don’t “ask” (where asking is obviously telling in woman-speak), you certainly won’t get.