Like most Hallmark days, Mother’s Day has officially lost the plot. Somewhere along the way, it got confused with Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and a social media frenzy of flashy gifts and gushy posts.
Mums posting about how much they love being mums. Mums posting about how much they’ve learnt from their Boomer mothers (must be nice!), who don’t even have social media, so won’t see the adoring post (why not write it on a card instead?), and partners posting about their amazing “baby mamas” who are holding down the fort.
“We couldn’t do it without ya, babe!” Yeah, no shit, Phil.
It all feels a bit… performative. If a tree falls in the Mother’s Day woods but no one posts about it, did it even happen?
And it’s also a day that sets women up for massive disappointment – a spotlight on the cracks in their relationships, whether with their own mother, mother-in-law, partner, or ex. It can be equally painful for women desperately trying to start a family but struggling to, single mums, angel mums, mums who are missing their own mums.
After a string of back-to-back shocking Mother’s Day (and not for lack of effort from my partner – in our house, it’s basically Mother’s Day most weekends), I realised the problem: I’d spent the whole day daughtering my arse off. Most of the day in the car, driving from stakeholder to stakeholder, completely cooked by the time I got home to my own family.
Mother’s Day has also been a really hard time for me over the years, witnessing the deterioration of my own mum. Three years ago, on Mother’s Day, after driving to our house for afternoon tea, my mum crashed her car into four parked cars on the way home. It was a miracle no one was hurt.
Two years ago, I decided to pick her up and drive her to lunch. On the way home, she insisted we go via the bottle shop so she could pick up her evening four-pack of VB and ciggies. I was so tired and desperate to get back to my girls, but I did it anyway. On the car ride home, she recounted a story from the past that had, in fact, never happened. I texted my siblings after, with the subtext of, “Mum definitely has dementia.”
Last year on Mother’s Day, Mum was in a nursing home, officially diagnosed with vascular dementia and too furious at me for ending up there to allow me to visit.
So this year, I’m giving myself permission to boycott Mother’s Day, and I can’t recommend it enough.
I’m not visiting my mum.
I visit her enough every other week. I take her out to get her nails done, get coffee and give her a cheeky dart – that’s her love language. These outings are stressful enough, and anyone with a parent with dementia knows this.
Do I need to force myself to spend two hours in the car to visit her on a random Sunday capitalism has deemed a day for “THE MOTHERS”, cop the usual flurry of dementia-induced abuse, feel like shit, then go home really, really sad?
No. No, I don’t.
And you don’t have to either, whatever your situation may be!
Much like the flurry of brands that let you opt out of their Mother’s Day mailing lists, I’m opting out of the day entirely (save for a late lunch with my besties, who are all hurting on the day too for various heartbreaking reasons).
Like International Women’s Day, how can a single day encapsulate, acknowledge, and appreciate the work of a mother? Instead of one day of tokenistic, last-minute crappy gifts from the “show-mum-you-love-them” landfill section of Kmart, why not ensure she’s appreciated and supported consistently, 365 days a year?
Failing that, if you’re a partner wondering how you can help make this day a little less shit, I’ve done the legwork for you. Here’s what we actually want, crowd-sourced by yours truly…
💐 A sleep-in.
💐 An orgasm.
💐 A handwritten card about why she’s a brilliant parent.
💐 A long, kid-free lunch with her girlfriends.
💐 A 90-minute massage followed by a cup of herbal tea afterwards.
💐 A nap.
💐 Time to potter in the garden, alone.
💐 Time to read the newspaper cover-to-cover, alone.
💐 Time to have an ‘everything’ shower, alone.
💐 Not a single nappy to be changed or arse to be wiped.
💐 No one fucking touching them.
💐 Breakfast, lunch, dinner and lunch boxes taken care of.
💐 Good wine and a cheese platter.
💐 A clean car.
💐 A clean house.
💐 A clean toilet with the seat down.
💐 A babysitter booked and fun grown-up plans made.
💐 A day with zero decisions falling on her plate.
💐 A stretch limo with champagne on arrival to take her to the Fisher concert.
💐 A hotel room all to herself with a fluffy robe and a sleeping tablet, because sometimes the best way to celebrate motherhood is by pretending you’re not a mother (or the legal guardian for their own mother!) for 24 blissful hours.
Happy Mother’s Day to all the mamas who are the big slab of juicy meat in the bread of the sandwich generation. I see you <3 <3