Yes, it’s Mother’s Day, and I’m doing what every sensible matriarch does at the start of this auspicious day: I’m hiding in my room.
I’m never sure what the rules of engagement are for Mother’s Day. If I come downstairs, I run the risk of spoiling their big surprise, which given the sounds coming from the kitchen, include eggs, selected power tools, gushing tap water, and an interpretive dance routine to “Rock The Casbah”.
There must be a pretty wide range of family traditions that play out on this day wherever it’s celebrated, but in our household, it starts with wrapped gifts. I know. Already over the top, right? I’ll admit, my children’s need to lavish me with presents on Mother’s Day does leave me feeling a bit culpable, as if I’ve somehow guilted them into doing it. I swear I never asked for gifts!
But if it makes them happy, well, it’s a sacrifice I’ll just have to make. At least they’re not offering store-bought treasures, but rather those of the homemade variety (the best kind), so no allowance was harmed in the making of these gifts. And just like Santa’s packages, they’re all neatly laid out in front of the fireplace, each one hermetically sealed in a Fort Knox-style tape job that will, no doubt, necessitate that second pot of coffee.
As I’m given clearance to descend the stairs, I’m greeted with heartfelt hugs and acrostic poems, in which my list of rhymed descriptors includes “omnivorous”, “monstrously kind” and “superb bed head”.
But my husband Andrew gets line of the day with “My lyrics are sung to your tune”. Yeah, definitely loving Mother’s Day.
I know it’s going to taste pretty sweet.