Mother's Day

 I think there's something about Mother's day that has remained unsaid, and DEFINITELY unpublished, for far too many eons.

But fear not, gentlemen, I'm going to be the brave one, who blows the whistle.  Without fear of retribution (ok, with a fair amount of fear) I shall bravely stick my neck out and say it like it is.  (I'd like you to make note of this, because someone will need to at least point the police in the right direction should I suddenly vanish from the face of the Earth, get locked in an abandoned fridge without beer, or be crushed  on a dark lonely back road by an eighteen wheeler driven by a mystery woman wearing a balaclava and a '#1 Village People Fan' t-shirt.)

Here goes.

I believe Mothers' Day (I never have been quite sure where that apostrophe should go) should really be called 'Father's Nightmare Day', don't you think?
What do you mean I'm off my rocker?

Perhaps I should explain myself.

What I am trying to put to you is that Mot'hers Day may be great for Mothers, and even quite rewarding for children of Mothers, but it really is the absolute PITS for fathers….

Why?  Well, because we can NEVER get it right!

Think about it.  If your life experience is anything like mine you will agree that a mom is quite happy to get ANYTHING from her children on Moth'ers Day.  Really.  If I look back in time at the gifts I proudly presented Mrs Ed senior (The Matriarch), there certainly was no end to her grace in acceptance.

She was certainly delighted with the 'Circus Seal Sculpture' of 1974, moulded by my own rather un-artistic and somewhat grubby hands, out of rich Zambian red mud pilfered from a termite nest, and hardened in the oven 'til it cracked …. along with the plate from her favourite dinner set it was sitting on (sorry Mom).

And she almost wept for joy when presented with the scented 'Mommy in Spring' perfume of '78, concocted by my brother and I using daisies, prize rose petals, some grass, a blob of melted wine-gum, some toilet spray, that sticky, milky ooze from an aloe plant, and a naartjie segment, all crushed to liquid with a stone in a chipped (sorry Mom) salad bowl and dripped through a school-sock-(sorry Mom) filter into an emptied (sorry mom) expensive Eau de Toilette bottle.

And you should have seen her face when we served her the 'Special Breakfast in bed' because we knew how much she liked ice cream and red wine (but perhaps not together….). 

If the truth be told, my mother got more and more amenable as we got older.  In our early teens we presented her with the ever-popular rush-round-the-garden-at-6am-cos--I-forgot bunch of anything that grew…. which included a bonus of free mud prints throughout the house …. which she would have noticed before it hardened if we hadn't let her sleep in. 
And even in later years, she cooed most satisfactorily over the hastily bought potted cactus (it's amazing what you can buy at a petrol station these days) or box of chocolates from my office desk's bottom drawer (even the time I gave her the Quality Street she had given ME the previous Easter!)

Basically, it wasn't the present that counted, it was the fact that we made an effort!

But do husbands get the same grace?  No.  Not a chance!  Even when you point out to your spouse that she isn't actually your mother (despite what your psychiatrist says), you are EXPECTED to buy her a Mo'thers day present, and it HAS to be impressive.

But how?  How are we supposed to compete with little Johnny's 'Bestist Momy in tha hole Wirld” poster?  Or Wendy's bright pink plasticine fairy cake creation? 

We can't.  That's the bottom line. 

I realized how big the battle was on the first Mothers D'ay after our son was born.
“Today? Is it really?'  I remarked, when Mrs Ed mentioned (in passing I thought) what day it was. “Wow,” I chuckled, looking down on our boy who gurgled back at me despite being in a nappy that smelled like chemical warfare, “Think how nice it will be for you when he's old enough to buy you a present.”

I didn't realize until then how fine-tuned Mrs Ed's shoe-throwing skills were.

The following year I bought a card.  I even put our son's footprint on it, but I didn't get much reaction from Mrs Ed.  She barely looked up from the nappy  bucket.

I don't think I ever got it right.  I spent a good deal of time and effort trying, but it seemed her appreciation levels did not rise at all, in fact they dropped.

 I remember one year, when our son was four and a half and our daughter two, Mrs Ed had been complaining that she was exhausted, and never seemed to keep up with the housework because the kids demanded so much of her energy as soon as she got home from work. 

  This gave me the perfect idea for a M'others Day present
“A nice picnic will be just perfect!” I thought.
  So on Mothers Da'y morning I got up early, packed the car with a basket of food, a blanket, and a nice bottle of wine, and woke Mrs Ed up with a gentle peck on the cheek.
“Surprise!” I enthused, “I'm taking the kids to the park for the day, so YOU can catch up with the housework!”  I think I saw something akin to hatred in her eyes, and I still have a slight dent in my head from where the alarm clock connected.

As the kids got older I relived my own Mo'thers Day experiences, watching them present their mom with all sorts of meaningless matter, which somehow always brought a tear to her eye.  Yet year after year my failure to impress continued. 

The new wheelbarrow of '97 was apparently not a popular choice, neither was the 2nd hand lawnmower of 2000 (how was I to know she wanted one with a motor ?). 

And so it went on. In 2009 I thought I'd hit the Mothers Day Gift Jackpot.  Creeping around in my quest for an answer, I overheard Mrs Ed compairing notes with her sister, whose husband was apparently far more adept at buying romantic gifts. My ears pricked up when she complained that Hell would freeze over before I was romantic enough to buy her something 'black and lacey' to wear in bed.
“Eureka!” I thought, snatching up the electricity bill money and rushing off to the nearest clothing boutique.

  But the look on her face when she tore off the wrapping and took one of  the safety boots out of the box wasn't one of appreciation.  Indeed I think the steel toecap broke one of my ribs when it hit me.  The only thing that saved me from the full force of her wrath was my son, carrying in a breakfast tray on which sat a solitary grapefruit  with   “I  (heart)  Mommy” roughly carved into the peel.
“It's so beautiful!” she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears of gratitude as she hugged him to her.
  
I ask you! The lad was sixteen, the grapefruit stolen from the bowl on the diningroom table, and I swear he carved it on the way upstairs!

But don't worry.  This year I think I may have cracked it.  Some time ago I set my daughter the task of finding out what her Mother REALLY wants,  and I think she's come up trumps.
“Mom's feeling down lately,” she told me, “I think she needs professional pampering, so that she feels worth something. What about booking her a day at the spa for a full treatment?”

And that's exactly what I've done!  And I must say, when I phoned, the manager was most accommodating.  What a fabulously full day he has planned for her.  He said she could pack shelves for an hour or two, then maybe spend some time sorting meat in the butchery, and if all goes well, he might even let her wear a uniform and operate the till for the afternoon!

 I can't wait to see her face. I think I'll keep it as a surprise, perhaps put a blindfold on her until we get there, lead her down to the middle of the 'tinned food' aisle, then whisk it off .....  'Tadaaa'!!!!