Nothing validates what an amazing mother you are more than receiving nothing on Mother’s Day. I spent most of Mother’s Day simmering away, waiting for one of the three gentlemen in the house to realise that it was a day to pay obeisance to my all round awesomeness as a parent. I had to wait till 7 pm, when during a Skype call with my sister we witnessed her children hand over cards and a gift for the occasion.
I suppose I should be grateful that my children felt a twinge of guilt causing them to fish out a crumpled paper plane from the waste paper basket and hand it to me. As I unfolded it, I saw “I love…” Awww, my heart melted “…Appa”.
“Hey. You made this for your dad!” I barked. Five minutes later I was handed two sheets of paper covered in stick figures. The one wearing a Darth Vader mask had ‘Amma’ written under it. The stick figure that said ‘Appa’ had a speech bubble with the words “I can’t find my underwear.” My stick figure looked suitably ominous and unamused by this statement. Ok. Now I know why I got the Darth Vader helmet.
The other card showed the Appa stick figure saying “What is this nonsense?” and the Amma stick figure saying “Blah, Blah, Blah.” Perhaps we were still debating about the missing underwear.
At dinner time, my six year old decided to wear a pair of plastic Vampire fangs and eat dal and roti. Guess who got to wash the dal and roti off the fangs? And then, even after providing such yeomen service, I was called the worst, meanest, most sarcastic show-off mother ever. I was just pleased that he had used the word sarcastic correctly.
On seeing my pleasure, the boy then ordered his father to procure a new mother. Perhaps Darth Vader would like to audition for the role.
As a result of this transgression I spent much of dinner time in what I call my Marina Beach statue pose. Please note, when I am immortalised in stone next to the Kannagi Statue, I would like to be depicted holding an oval stainless steel plate in one hand, my other arm extended offering a morsel of food. The expression on my face should be one that is beseeching, fearful and enraged all at once.
“Please just finish your dinner. Think of this as your Mother’s Day gift to me.”
“You’re going to put all this in your column aren’t you?” The husband accused. Well, now that you mention it…
“See! Aren’t you glad we didn’t bother with anything?”
As I continue to stomp around the house grumbling, my husband tried to point out that no one ever wished on for Father’s Day and that I routinely forgot the year we got married in.
That’s right. Make this all about YOU. How typical.
That night, we all went to bed, upset, angry, and disappointed. Ok, I did. My six-year-old was probably dreaming of meeting his new mother Darth Vader soon.
The next morning I woke up and settled down with the newspaper. The masthead proclaimed that it was Mother’s Day. Oh. So not yesterday then? Right boys, let’s get it right this time round then.
(The writer’s parenting philosophy is: if there’s no blood, don’t call me)