7 Reasons I Can Never Get Mothering Sunday Quite Right
1. The Name. My Mother is a traditional Mother. She takes two steps back if I say the wrong thing. And the wrong thing is Mother’s Day. “It is not Mother’s Day, Jonathan. It is Mothering Sunday.” Yes Mum.
2. Cards. Apart from having to ignore all the cards which say Happy Mother’s Day in the search for one that says Happy Mothering Sunday, I can never find one which doesn’t make me sound completely effeminate. I am quite happy telling my Mum she is the greatest in the world (because she is), but goodness knows what she must be thinking when I hand her something that says, ‘You are the blooming flower of my Spring, the sunshine of my Summer, the tumbling conkers of my Autumn and the turkey of my Winter’.
3. Flowers. My Mum likes flowers. I believe it’s a female thing. The problem is I can never remember which flowers my Mum likes. Sure she’ll say she likes everything, but I know for a fact that that isn’t quite true. She does have her favourites and she does tell me a day or so after the Mothering Sunday flowers have died. So why can I never remember what she said 350 days later? It’s one of life’s cruelties.
4. Music. As well as flowers I like to buy my Mum a gift. In recent years I have taken to buying her a CD. She likes The Hollies and Herman’s Hermits. My inability to mentally separate one from the other means she now has four copies of Herman’s Hermits Greatest Hits. Five if you are reading this after Sunday.
5. Household Chores. It’s not that I am bad at the ironing. Or the washing up. Or the drying up. It’s just that it is a Sunday. And on Sundays there is invariably sport on the TV. I have a habit of watching sport. Until, that is, I hear the opening of an ironing board, upon which I jump from my seat and race to the utility room where I find my Mum doing the ironing that I would eventually have started when the game had finished. On telling her to go and sit down she says, ‘No, I don’t want these being done at 7pm’. So I leave.
6. Cooking. Apparently burning doesn’t go down too well. The really frustrating thing is that when I cook for myself I never have any problems. Put a hungry woman in front of me though and I lose the plot. This year I am going to cook for myself on Friday, freeze it and reheat it on Sunday. What could possibly go wrong?
7. I’m Not There. This is probably the thing I get wrong most of the time. It is so much harder to cook the dinner, do the ironing and give her flowers when I am not actually in the same house. Ah well, there is always next year.