It’s that time of year again. Mother’s Day.
Remember when you were in grade 2 and you made that Mother’s Day card for your mom out of construction paper with little hand drawn flowers and butterflies and enough glitter to make RuPaul jealous? And inside was a poem written in crooked script, like only a 7 year old can write, that went something like this;
M – Magical like a fairy
O – Only one I got
T – Teaches me stuff
H – Hugs me all the time
E – Every day she loves me
R – Round in all the right places
And even though some of the lines in the poem bordered on insulting, coming from a child it was acceptable somehow. And your mom would smile and hold it to her heart as if it was the most precious gift she had ever received.
Then your little brother, who was always trying to top you, would whip around the corner and present her with tulips that he just plucked out of her flower garden with the dirt still hanging on the stems, and she would hug him with all her might as if he just gave her a fistful of the most rare flower in the world.
And she would smile like all was right in the world because it’s the thought that counts.
I call bullshit with a capital B.
It’s not the thought that counts. You’re not seven anymore. She wants a card from Hallmark not the dollar store. She wants real jewellery not a macaroni necklace, and real flowers from a florist not from the grocery store. She wants theater or ballet tickets and a dinner that she doesn’t have to cook or clean up. She wants you to take her to a girlie movie where nothing blows up, order her a large extra buttery popcorn, and she wants you to pay for it. She wants you to take her out to lunch at a real restaurant without a drive thru window. She wants you to make her breakfast in bed instead of sleeping until two o’clock in the afternoon.
Got it? Good. Don’t make me call your mother.
You may also like: