A mother's place

So Sunday is Mother's Day. I have in my mind an idea of how I would like the day to go.
First of all I'd like my other half to whisk me (and the kids) off to a fancy hotel on Saturday night – somewhere with a huge big bed we can all sleep in and with a night nanny on call to do the night feeds while I sleep soundly in said big bed.
I'd like to wake up – naturally and not to the cry of a newborn or the over excited multiple questions of a five year old – and be presented with a selection of fine pastries and a glass of champagne while my husband gives me that speech from the baby formula ad on TV which always makes me cry. (You know the one – where the hubby promises to tell his wife how she has made him the happiest and proudest daddy in the world, etc)My children will then be presented to me – fed, clean and smiling beatifically (even the baby who only smiles through wind at the moment) and I shall be presented with a huge bouquet of flowers, some tasty chocolates and yet more champagne.
The night nanny will stay on duty so that I can get mildly scuttered on the champagne without having to worry about dropping the baby on her head or falling asleep mid role play with Joseph – who speaks with a permanent American accent these days.
And the hotel will let us stay there as long as we want so that I don't have to worry about dragging my tired and saggy post baby butt out of bed any sooner than I feel ready to – which is fairness could mean I stay there for a year or two.
I might, just, be tempted out of my pit for a bit of lunch with my own mammy – with of course more champagne, or just ordinary wine.
After nine months of walking in the desert I'm quite enjoying the odd glass of vino now and again.I'm fully aware things will most likely be different however. My daughter has not yet mastered the art of recognising what is night and what is day so Mothering Sunday is likely to start almost as soon as the clock strikes midnight.
The husband and I will look pityingly at each other when she is still awake at 4am and only one of us will get the "get out of jail free" card which allows us to clear into the next room and snuggle beside a sleeping bigger boy while the other settles an over-tired baby. Generally the husband is the more miserable looking of the pair of us by the time 4am rolls around so he will get the chance for a few blissful uninterrupted hours' sleep.
Bleary eyed and scare-crowed of hair I will be up early and washing bottles, loading the washing machine and nursing a little lady while trying to role play again with the Americanised Joseph. If I am lucky my husband will remember – at about 8pm – that it is Mother's Day and he might make me some scrambled egg on toast or other culinary delight (my appetite still not having recovered from nine months of hyperemesis).He won't have gone in for the over commercialisation of Mother's Day – arguing that I should know my children love me every day of the year and not just because a card company say they should let me know. In fairness again the boy does tell me every day – the girl is much too young to show any affection apart from snuggling in with her gorgeous new baby smell.
There won't be a hotel for me, or a box of over priced chocolates or even a pair of Yummy Mummy socks. Thankfully, that also means I will escape some of the dodgier Mother's Day gifts out there. For example I spotted a special CD just for the occasion called 'Housework Songs' – I'd rather have nothing than have my other half present me with a soundtrack to domestic drudgery.And believe me, he would rather deal with my sour face at receiving little in return for producing a son and daughter for him than receive the clout around the head he would get with said CD should it land on my lap on Sunday morning.
Of course, my other half has a point. Appreciating your mother should not be about buying a card just because it is that certain time of year. I try to make an effort to tell my own mammy often just how important she is to me (and not just when I'm looking for a favour). We shouldn't need a date in the diary to say thanks to our mothers and tell them we love them.There is no greater bond than a mother's love for a child – and in turn a child's love for a mother – no matter how old the child is.
On Sunday, therefore, I'll try and keep my sour face in check and I'll try and appreciate just what I do have. A cuddle from either of my children will mean more than any bottle of champagne could. A smile from the boy will mean more than a full night's sleep in a very big bed and a the softness of my daughter's hair will feel nicer than chocolate ever could.
But I'll try to remember to do something nice for my own, lovely, mammy anyway – because regardless of the day of the year she deserves it