Mother’s Day wasn’t the best in this house.
You know the idyllic Mother’s Day we’re fed? Tiny, little angelic people, trying to be grown ups, precariously carrying a tray of tea and toast, with a fresh cut flower in a posy vase? Creeping into your room, where they’ve let you sleep until 9am. You know that dream?
Well that’s not what my Mother’s Day looked like. The Bearded Manc worked last night, not getting in until 8:30am, so there was no lay in for me. Nor breakfast. Or any kind of ceremony whatsoever, (disclaimer, I did get flowers on Friday)
Instead, I had a grumpy Bear on my hands (he still hasn’t shook a virus, making him very lethargic) and an emotional, potty training Bunni with the sh*ts. Yep, the sh*ts.
Nothing says ‘Mother’s Day’ like the sh*ts.
We did manage to leave the house for an hour and had a go on our local miniature railway. We are so fortunate to have this on our front door. It is quite charming and such a fun little thing to do with young ones. Plus it’s only 30p a go – what else can you buy for 30p?
So today was a bit of a right off. Am I sad? Well if I’m honest, it’s a tad disappointing. We’ve had a rough few weeks, bombarded with nasty illness and I’ve done nothing but scrub and bleach and wash and dry and medicate and comfort and be the punch bag (not literally) and it would’ve been nice to have been spoiled just once.
The reason I’m Chief Nurse is because I’m fortunate enough to be a Mum and my children want me over everyone and everything else. Do I need fanfare and gifts to tell me that? No. It’s written on their faces every time they feel poorly and look to me for comfort. It’s in their voices when they say ‘my belly hurts, Mummy’. It’s in their tiny little arms, when they wrap them around my neck and squeeze tighter than should be possible for such small limbs. It’s in their eyes when they see me sitting by their bedside because they are too poorly to sleep. It’s in their laughter when I perform the silliest of routines. It’s in their acts of kindness and the fact that they always pick me first. It’s in their excitement when I enter their rooms each morning.
I don’t need anything else. I have absolutely everything I could ever have wished for, in the form of two perfectly imperfect little people who happily call me Mummy.
To want more out of life would be greedy and a slap in the face of all the incredible humans out there raising children alone, or in poverty or violence. It would be two fingers up to all the parents that don’t yet have babies, fighting so hard to become parents or who lost them to the stars. They know what a gift it is. As do I.
My Mother’s Day may make Walt Disney turn in his grave, but actually it was perfect. I am a Mother. I mothered. That is all I want from this lifetime and the next.