My Mother’s Day went something like this: The kids made their lovely heartfelt handmade cards, (I’m trying really hard not to notice that the picture they drew of me includes a blonde moustache and a massive ass), and then presented me with a teacher-written “Cuz I’m small” poem. They had tucked these treasures on a tray, burned some toast with Daddy’s help, and slopped orange juice all the way up my newly carpeted stairs (“winter white” – what was I thinking?). They shook me awake (totally unnecessary as the youngest had already tripped on my discarded clothes and head butted me in the stomach), dumped the whole thing on my bed and announced “Happy Mother’s Day!” Which was quickly followed by “Eat the toast eat the toast eat the toast”, and “my present’s the best right? Right? Right? He’s hitting me! You’re going to die you little booger.”…and then it really started to degenerate.
I love my kids. I love that they love Mother’s Day. But they just don’t get it sometimes. My perfect Mother’s Day would involve me, my bed, maybe a coffee, and my beloved BlackBerry, Seamus. Call me a mean old cynic if you want to, but isn’t this day supposed to be all about us? Mostly, I want to forget just for a few lovely hours, that I am defined as being a mother.
I’ve told my husband for years not to buy me anything for Mother’s Day – from him, via the kids, or any combination thereof. I’m not his Mother, and I find it kind of creepy. I once had a male friend justify it by saying “But she’s the mother of my children.” Oh really. They’re now divorced. I wonder if he still buys the present – she’s still the mother of his children after all.
Which leads me to think about why Seamus is a more welcome guest in my bedroom on Mother’s Day morning than my other children:
· The aforementioned juice spilling and requisite burnt-toast eating is eliminated.
· It’s quiet. It buzzes. I tap. It’s quiet.
· It’s not sticky. Usually.
· It provides me with adult conversation instead of forcing me to pull apart two warring pre-schoolers while sitting in a bed, trapped by a tippy, sloppy tray. “I love you both goddamit. Now go and see your father!”
· It doesn’t ask “Is Mother’s Day over now?”, “Why isn’t there a BlackBerry day?”, “Can you help Dad start the dishwasher?”, and “What can we do while Dad is working on the computer”?
And most of all, there’s no clean-up required – emotionally or physically.
Excerpted from Kathy Buckworth’s new book “The BlackBerry Diaries: Adventures In Modern Motherhood” (Key Porter, April, 2009), available at bookstores everywhere. Visit www.kathybuckworth.com and read Funny Mummy every month