Mother’s Day

It’s landed upon us without a warning this year. Stealthily arriving earlier than usual and hushed amid all the din of last week’s snow. To be honest, I’d completely forgotten about it until a kind hairdresser reminded me yesterday.

“Did you forget it’s Mother’s Day this weekend too?” she said.

“I did”, I said.

But Christmas was only bloody yesterday, and sure just last week I had to have flowers delivered for her to get her out of a humour (that I’d set her in… mea colpa). Don’t get me wrong, my mother is amazing. She gave me life, she supports me through thick and thin, she’s a great friend and she’d give me the bit going into her mouth, but the shite that Mother’s Day is starting to become is just not sitting well with me. Every day should be Mother’s Day. Every day you should take the chances you’re given to tell her you love her, to show her you care. I do, just as I do with those I love most. And I believe that every day is a new opportunity to celebrate life and love, but this increasing violation of  Hallmark induced festivals is melting my head. Halloween and Mother’s Day being the two I’m beginning to detest most. Nothing speaks commerciality like gardens decorated with plastic skeletons or a card pickled with glitter.

But glitter is not my language of love. Nor are Halloween face paints or art-deco cakes or dozens of force grown red roses. Love is patience. Love is being tolerant when she’s wrecking your head waffling first thing in the morning. Love is letting her say the same rubbish about Deirdre O’Kane looking like she wants to leave Dancing with the Stars numerous times every Sunday evening. Love is hearing her say “goodnight my two babies” to you and your brother every night and knowing that your reply means the world to her. Love is respecting her. Love is buying her a bottle of wine to have watching the rugby today. Love is knowing that she’ll be doing her own dancing around the sitting room after the game if Ireland win.

I picked her up some wine for Mother’s Day and the brother has grabbed her a voucher. As it turns out, we’ve both forgotten a card, but do you know what – it’s in the gap where the card should be that we can assert our idea of love. There may be no pink glitter, but there will be truth. She wrecks your head and rocks your world and brightens up the planet. A pink flowery card, just couldn’t say that.

 

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