Mother’s Day is different for every mother, I’m sure, and it’s different every year for me. Obviously, the kids get older and are capable of doing new things, not like being quiet on the stairs outside my bedroom but like making breakfast themselves, and checking to see if the house alarm is off before they go outside. However, there will still be vast difference between an ideal day and the actuality. See below…

Ideal: go to bed the night before really late after smashing cocktails and Husband two or three times.
Reality: go to bed after 1.5 glasses of wine because it really just makes me tired. Possibly have watched some shows online and maybe smashed Husband once .

Ideal: wake up after children adorably attempt to sneak quietly downstairs, then go back to sleep for 3 hours.
Reality: wake up at 5am. No one else is awake, there is no reason to be awake this early. Turn off alarm anyway, just in case someone wants to pick flowers for you as a surprise. Go back to sleep and wake up at 6am, when boys are still in their room. Stare st Husband as he sleeps through the tornado that is his offspring rumbling down the stairs. Try to go back to sleep. Open eyes to offspring asking for the ipad so they can let you sleep in. Get out of bed to find it for them/him. Consider smothering soundly-sleeping Husband.

Ideal: a pot of tea, glass of champagne, a smoothie, bacon, eggs, grilled tomatoes, pastries.
Reality: I just can’t fit all of that in mah belleh.

Ideal: reading, sewing, napping, gardening.
Reality: might be pretty close, actually.

Ideal: no fighting, yelling, crying, overtiredness, morbidly messy playrooms or boredom.
Reality: all of the above.

So, a break even day, either way.

Oma lives in a memory care facility because after Grandpa died, she started forgetting things and then it was downhill from there. I visted her last time we were in Australia and I thought it was so sad, but Mum said it was a nice facility that could give her all the help she needs so I shouldn’t be sad. Mum is philosophical about stuff like that but I live in a dream world, like Neo, so it was a shock to my system.
I have some great memories of Oma, like the time I got to go and stay with her and Grandpa ALL BY MYSELF, which felt like such an awesome treat, but maybe I was being palmed so Mum and Dad could have a break, or something. I did heaps of fun things that mostly involved church and gardening, which pretty much sum up Oma and Grandpa. I’m sure I would have whined like the whiny baby my sister apparently was on the long drive from our house to theirs, but I don’t remember that part.
Another visit we were all sewing or knitting, and Oma helped me unwind a bunch of knotted wool that I kept yanking at and would have thrown away. I don’t know why that is such a prominent memory. I’m sure it’s freudian without the sexual backstory, if that’s possible. Or just psychosomatic. Or just a subconscious storyline of my whole life. Or maybe it’s nothing.
I remember visiting Oma and Grandpa’s house and being in their room. Oma had a vanity set with a fancy little stool, and jewellery everywhere, and photos on the wall of people I sort of recognized. And a picture of their wedding day that I didn’t understand because she wasn’t wearing a big white gown. But she did have a big hat on, that in real life isn’t as big as I thought. I have it in my collection now, but it’s borderline too small for my noggin, so I’m saving it for something special. Perhaps a night out when I can drink and swear, just like Oma.
Happy Mother’s Day Oma. I miss you.

My folks are empty-nesters now, and have been for about 15 years, which means a) they are old, and b) I am, too.
We live on opposite sides of the world, so we don’t see each other often, but we try and get on skype often enough. And finally, my mum has gotten her shit together with Whatsapp and it now has phone calls. Which is awesome because we can talk on the cheap, and also she can help almost anytime I have a sewing question, which is almost anytime I am sewing. The annoying thing is, though, apart from the potentially constant stream of questions – which must be one of the reasons she would have been happy that I left home – that I probably answer my own questions before she has a chance to, except the question about which way the fabric should go on that whitish material… Mum, *eyebrows raised*.
Anyhoo, we rang for a chat yesterday and will skype today, but Mum will be back to the grindstone after that.
I remember buying presents for her from the school fete thst was always ill-timed for the amount of work the mums put into it on the dsy before Mother’s Day, but was well-timed for offspring who didn’t know how or what to buy for their mums except for the school fete. I’m sorry to day that I might just have bought a school-made cookbook for her every year for a while. I actually LOVE cookbooks, and maybe it’s because I have these hazy but cherished memories of buying cookbooks in the name of love. There are no school fetes in our future for a little while yet, at least, but I don’t mind blowing my nose on vintage hankies in the mean time, after getting dewy-eyed over hand-scrawled cards, because their writing really is getting better every day. Hopefully Mum will enjoy a nice of cup of tea with her feet up sans cookbooks, when her present finally arrives in the post.
Love you Mum. Happy Mother’s Day.