Sundays tend to be pretty similar in our house, They go like this.
I will wake up some time between 6 and 7. My youngest daughter (known as Girly no2) is 15 months old and will wake up grizzling until I lift her out of her cot. When I walk into the room she will ‘Baaa’ like a sheep and ‘Oooh-oooh’ like a monkey offering up her favourite soft toys for me to admire. My eldest daughter, 3 and a half, (known as Girly no1) will wake up singing a Frozen medley until she shouts “I need a weeeeee!” at the top of her voice, waking any one else in the house who was in danger of thinking they might get a lie in. No way, no how! Not in this pad!
In our bed they drink their milk then shuffle, kick and elbow. As the morning fog lifts, they will both start nattering at unnecessarily high volumes for that time of day. Girly no2 will eventually make her way to the stair gate, hold it with both hands and shake it shouting ‘a-ble’ (apple) at the top of her voice. She knows a-ble is the key to her making in to her highchair. I will stay in bed. I might be sleeping away prosecco-induced nausea, blearily-eyed scanning Instagram for “shame pics” from the night before or I might just be lying and listening to the chitter chatter of my little family eating breakfast.
Eventually I will feel guilty and go downstairs to find chaos in the kitchen, pandemonium in the playroom and dishevelled Daddy the human climbing frame. We will all get dressed – it will take nearly two hours because we have a three year old – then head out for a walk and some lunch.
We might meet my Mum, my sister, maybe Husband’s Mum. We’ll walk. We’ll reminisce. We’ll eat. We’ll all take the p**s out of each other in a way that only your family can. Some call it affectionate, some call it being an arsehole. Whatever works for you. We’ll watch the Girlies adoringly, comparing features of theirs with ours and my Husbands (my Mum will claim every one of them from her side of the family).
On the way home, no2 will fall asleep, puffer fish cheeks looking as though she’s packing some eggs in there. I’ll drop her into her cot then curl up on the sofa to watch some Pixar-Dreamy-Disney film, drink tea and eat biscuits. Girly no1 will sit so close to me that I won’t be able to pick the biscuit out of my teeth without elbowing her in the head. She’ll move over to Husband, lying on him, until every part of her ever-lengthening little body is flat on him. Her thumb will go in and moments later her eyes will close, just like his.
The movie will finish, everyone will wake up from family nap time and both girlies will run around our living space knocking glasses over and fighting over the TV buttons (even though neither of them can work them). It will drive me nuts so we all go and play and ear dinner. Girly no2 will do her favourite thing – strip down to her nappy, put on her woolly hat and push her trolley around with her baby in it. Girly no1 will be up at the table drawing us pictures of phallic stickmen and writing her name illegibly but beautifully, filling me with pride. We will sit down to eat. We will row over how much to eat, when you are allowed a yoghurt and whether your water has been drunk all the way down to the dog’s feet (picture on a cup, we don’t make her drink from a dog), then it will be bath time. We’ll put two sleepy girls to bed and then go downstairs. “Another day done!” we’ll say as we crash out on the sofa.
This Sunday will have all of these things, as every Sunday does, plus a few more things. Because it’s Mother’s Day. There will be homemade cards, possibly some flowers, probably some bubbles and definitely some chocolate (I’m easily pleased). I am lucky enough to be cherished and have a very thoughtful husband who will buy me more than a single finger of a Twirl (true story from a friend of mine) and hopefully my children will address their Mother’s Day cards to me rather than their Daddy. But I will also take a moment to make contact with my friend who had a miscarriage. And my neighbour who lost her daughter in the tsunami years ago. My mother-in-law for making such an amazing son. My friend who is having IVF. My cousin who doesn’t speak to her Mum. And of course, whether I see her or not, my own Mum who is a superstar and has never let me have a day’s doubt as to whether there was someone out there that loved me.
Happy Mother’s Day everyone. Whether you see it as a Hallmark money making scheme, just another day, or you are showered in gifts from the annoying dancing bird off the TV, I wish you a lovely Sunday.
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