Not some of my finest moments either
Year 1 of Mother's day : I get up with the baby all night long and then do it from crack of dawn onwards while Z sleeps. He looks baffled after I burst into tears and eventually says:
"Well I didn't want to get in your way, because I thought that you know, Mother's Day is when you just really want to spend extra time with the kid and let it be all about you and him."
Year 2 of Mother's Day: A lovely bouquet of flowers is delivered the week before. On actual Mother's day there is nothing bar a confused look again.
"But I already sent you the flowers a week ago!" he says. "It would have been triple price to have them delivered on actual Mother's Day."
"You can do plenty of free stuff," I counter. "What about a card, or a lie in, or a flower you picked on your walk?" Z continues to exude confusion, while I embrace self-pity and spend a large part of the afternoon enjoying a long cry and an even longer sulk.
Year 3 of Mother's day: changing tactics, I give Z the name of a specific bath product that I would really enjoy trying out, and email him a link to some stores where it may be found. Z promptly forgets the name, but uses his lunch break to walk all over Oxford St and calls me multiple times for clarification leading to much comedy as I attempt to spell out the name of a brand over the bad reception. In a signature move of thoughtlessness and generosity, he gets a whole range of bath and body product from the brand, figuring that the thing I want will be somewhere in there.
Year 4 of Mother's Day: I get exactly what I asked for which is: breakfast in bed, and then alone time in bed, with my Kindle while he wrestles the the children into their clothes and hustles them out into the garden. The children, sensing contentment, circle me like sharks in the water doing their best to eat my breakfast and my Kindle, but my powers of concentration are fearsome when woken and I am determined to embrace my shred of indolence. I also receive bonus lovely gift of t-shirts with the kids faces and handprints (awww) and a meal out whose splendidness is not diminished even by Z breaking one of his teeth halfway through. The children do their level best to cover both of us in assorted sauces and oils, so that by the end of the day our clothes look like something to intrigue CSI, but we do not care because I am as fully qualified to cling to cheerfulness as I am to sorrow.
"Well I didn't want to get in your way, because I thought that you know, Mother's Day is when you just really want to spend extra time with the kid and let it be all about you and him."
Year 2 of Mother's Day: A lovely bouquet of flowers is delivered the week before. On actual Mother's day there is nothing bar a confused look again.
"But I already sent you the flowers a week ago!" he says. "It would have been triple price to have them delivered on actual Mother's Day."
"You can do plenty of free stuff," I counter. "What about a card, or a lie in, or a flower you picked on your walk?" Z continues to exude confusion, while I embrace self-pity and spend a large part of the afternoon enjoying a long cry and an even longer sulk.
Year 3 of Mother's day: changing tactics, I give Z the name of a specific bath product that I would really enjoy trying out, and email him a link to some stores where it may be found. Z promptly forgets the name, but uses his lunch break to walk all over Oxford St and calls me multiple times for clarification leading to much comedy as I attempt to spell out the name of a brand over the bad reception. In a signature move of thoughtlessness and generosity, he gets a whole range of bath and body product from the brand, figuring that the thing I want will be somewhere in there.
Year 4 of Mother's Day: I get exactly what I asked for which is: breakfast in bed, and then alone time in bed, with my Kindle while he wrestles the the children into their clothes and hustles them out into the garden. The children, sensing contentment, circle me like sharks in the water doing their best to eat my breakfast and my Kindle, but my powers of concentration are fearsome when woken and I am determined to embrace my shred of indolence. I also receive bonus lovely gift of t-shirts with the kids faces and handprints (awww) and a meal out whose splendidness is not diminished even by Z breaking one of his teeth halfway through. The children do their level best to cover both of us in assorted sauces and oils, so that by the end of the day our clothes look like something to intrigue CSI, but we do not care because I am as fully qualified to cling to cheerfulness as I am to sorrow.