I’ve always hated the idea of Mothers’ Day. It has always seemed so commercialised and meaningless. The recognition aspect has completely fallen by the wayside, and now it’s just about commercialism. Lately it seems to have got even more commercialised, so that it is now compulsory for all mothers to be taken out for a fabulous dinner (forget breakfast in bed).
I used to wonder whether I would miraculously convert to being in favour of mothers’ day once I became a mother, and hence eligible for all the pampering. I haven’t. Even when I was in hospital with a new baby on mothers’ day, I found the whole thing faintly ridiculous.
The one aspect of it all that has slightly crept through my barriers is loving the handmade things my boys are bringing home from pre-school and school. It was wonderful to watch C’s excitement as he told me not to look under his bed where he was hiding my present.
But I was soon brought down to earth as we were walking through our local shopping centre, with C (an early print addict) reading out all the mothers’ day ads and telling me that I must buy a card and present for my mother. Brainwashing starts young these days.
Bah humbug from me too! In my view, the offensive thing about Mothers Day isn’t so much its commercialisation as the implication that one day of hearts, flowers, presents, cards, sentiment, breakfast in bed, dinner out etc makes up for 364 days of being used, abused and taken for granted. I’d much rather have family members who pulled their weight and appreciated my parenting role all the time than ones who paid me homage once a year. (I suppose the two aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive, which means I will graciously accept offerings from my weight-pulling and appreciative nearest and dearest if it comes down to it! And I did call my grandmother and wish her happy Mothers Day this afternoon… my mother appears to have more interesting things to do with her day than hang round waiting to be wished happy Mothers Day).