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Post originally published on March 2nd, 2008

Mothering Sunday or, The Plague is Coming!

Happy Mum's Day to you celebrating it. Mothering Sunday is held in March, usually preceded by a Saturday where Tesco's are bursting at the seams with frazzled men and their children. I was foolish enough to go in for scones yesterday and dang near didn't live to see my breakfast in bed this morning.

The first March we were here to experience the bombardment of adverts for the upcoming day, we were the very tired parents of a non-sleeping five-month old. I dashed about madly to get cards for our three mothers and spent hours contemplating the best British-type gift for the cherished women in our lives. Reflecting back, I remember thinking, "Has this holiday always been in March? I could've sworn it was in May." The Hubby never corrected me, but looked as bewildered as I was.
Imagine our surprise when we finally figured it all out-- and I was two months early for "our" holiday (I think I still mailed them late though).

This year, I'm better rested. I know now that I should buy my Mums cards on Monday (they'll disappear quick, these people don't mess around in changing holidays) to mail to the U.S in May.

This year I received breakfast in bed (oops, it was Fast Sunday),
and some of the most beautiful cards ever made (in my opinion). Mother's Day is getting better.

I used to dread Mother's Day like the plague and I'll tell you why (gee, must you?).

Every Mother's Day falls on Sunday-- strange coincidence, I know.
As a family, we strive to keep the Sabbath day holy-- pretty much like Biblical times, meaning: we don't work and don't want to be the cause of somebody else working.

All Mother's Day Brunches are on Sunday.

While happy Mother's all over the United States are washing crab legs down with champagne, I am bathing four very different kinds of stinky little critters that want to give me grief on everything from the clothes I've laid out to who each critter has to bathe with.

I've showered (before the dawn of time), fixed my hair hastily and dressed in the clothes I should've thrown out on my 5th wedding anniversary, but by the time the little beasts are fed, bathed and dressed, I look like I've been in a fight with a wet dog.

I do all of this while my husband attends church meetings. He then arrives (looking pretty scrumptious in his pressed, puke-free suit), five minutes before the meeting is to begin so that we can jointly tie--I mean safely hook--each wriggly, angry mini-monster into their car seat...while the teenager exudes attitude. ('nuff said)
We then begin the 2 1/2 hour drive to church.
Alright, I might be exaggerating on the time taken to commute to a building a few blocks away, but when children are screaming in your ear, time seems to go more slowly-- like "I think I remember that last ice age" slowly.

Next, I sit in a church meeting listening to MAN after MAN speak about how wonderful his mother was.
You know her.
She was the lady that NEVER raised her voice at the children, always had a clean, warm home and delicious meals on the table that said MAN would never have dreamt of saying, "I don't like that! Can't we just have chicken nuggets like billy's family?".

I am shrinking further and further into my wrinkled, Mork & Mindy-style cowl-necked sweater (or did I buy it during the Three's Company run?) wishing for the roof to collapse.

Can it get worse? Of course it can!

The children are dragged up front to sing about their Moms, "Mother, I love you, Mother, I dooo--hoooo", all smiling lovingly at their perfectly pressed mothers. But mine....

My children have memories like elephants. They remember that I made them eat their greens the night before. They remember that I shouted at them before breakfast when they dropped a baseball on the baby's head...and when they dumped the bath water all over the floor while playing "sinking ship", and when we were getting in the car and again when they darted out of the car into a busy parking lot.
Yep, there is love just oozing from their smiles..NOT.
They look like someone pinched them. They're NOT singing, they are just looking terribly uncomfortable.
My scowling kids are given flowers to hand out to the mothers in the congregation. Luckily they don't try to pretend I'm not there-- in fact, now that they're waltzing through the aisles with flowers, they are each quite happy. One gives me some. Now I get to take home a beautiful reminder of Spring, WHO's LIFE WAS CRUELLY CUT SHORT TO COMMEMORATE THIS BLOODY, HAPPY HOLIDAY.

Um,
sorry about that.

That was past Mother's Day. Present Mothers Day is Mothering Sunday in the U.K.
For some reason, it just works better here.
The Hubby, who was scheduled to work, got a call before we left for church saying his shift was cancelled. He looked scrumptious in his pressed, puke-free suit-- but even better, he had bathed the kids while I dressed in something purchased in this decade.
My kids honored me. They sang. J2 even participated in a duet.. with a smile... directed at me! I came home with a potted flower, picked out of the box by the child that knew I liked purple.

I am feeling so fuzzy that I want to share this day with you, regardless of what month you observe it. Since I can't mail you a Mum's Day card, I am sending you flowers. Daffodils from my front garden. I even knocked the bugs off...

you're welcome, and have a great Sunday!!