My Mother’s Day

It’s official – I have the best children in the world. I know you other mothers think that you have, but I am here to prove that’s not the case.

My day started nicely, with a wag and a lick from my dog. I went to church and heard via the story of Moses’s mother how good we mothers are, which is always nice to know, and we were all given daffodils as a reward. When I got home, I received my presents. Sadly, Tory Boy wasn’t here but I spoke to him Friday, Saturday and this morning, so I can’t complain. TB sent me a card that had no printed message inside because, he wrote, there is no card in the world that could say how much he loves me. That made me cry a little. Spud Bud spent ages choosing a beautiful card with just the right message. He went to write in it after I went to bed last night, and discovered when he opened it that it was a birthday card. That’s how he and his father came to be making me a card at one o’clock this morning. It was lovely, and I still have the other one to look forward to in September.

Family tradition is cards first, then presents. I received the two best presents in the world from the two best children in the world. TB – via his father, who isn’t bad, either – had a photograph the Hub took of my art gallery poem artwork printed onto canvas, so I have my own miniature version of it. How cool is he?

Spud, who has no money at the moment due to the plethora of new games recently released onto a hungry market, is going to cook my dinner tonight, for which I love him; but he also wrote me a poem telling me how great I am, for which I love him even more. That made me cry too. How cool is he? Plus, he drained his money-box of spare change to buy me a birthday card and the largest box of Maltesers I have ever seen, and added to his goodness by helping me to eat them.

It’s like the Hub said, we can’t remember many of the gifts they have bought us over the years (though we still have them all because we never part with anything they give us), but the love and thought that goes into handwritten poems and one-off artworks will be treasured more than anything.

The Hub and I popped out at twelve for what was supposed to be a one-hour round-trip to the cemetery. Three hours later we collapsed starving into our lounge. The traffic was horrendous and we have decided never to go anywhere on Mother’s Day again. I was supposed to be visiting my friend this afternoon but I was shattered from the last 180 minutes of gritting my teeth and restraining the Hub, who wanted to leap from his car and stone every driver who cut in on the hard shoulder instead of waiting their turn like decent people.

After a revivifying toasted chicken sandwich and mug of tea, I retired to the boudoir with Forrest, Forrest Gump. He has a pretty good mother, too. I have seen the film about twenty times but I never grow tired of it, and that’s all I have to say about that.

Just as I was settling down, Spud’s Best Friend ands Spud’s Best Friend’s Granddad arrived to watch the match. Spud’s BF, who has a home from home here, brought me a beautiful bunch of flowers. So I not only have the best children in the world, I also have the best children’s best best friend in the world.

I am one lucky mother.