12. Mothers, Marketing and Making a Stand

Happy Mother's Day!! Happy day, or happy mothers? Which does it mean? Anybody know? Whatever it is, I'm not a great fan, despite the fact that I am both a mother and very happy about it. But let's be honest, the whole concept is just a cynical marketing strategy, designed to part one section of society from it's money by persuading it that it's honour bound to spend it on stuff for another section, and I don't hold with it.

That's not to say I'm a total Grinch about it. I still have a box containing the handmade cards and gifts that my daughters produced for me when they were little, and I love them, but they didn't cost anything, and they were urged to produce them by well-meaning playgroup leaders and teachers, which was fine. But being prompted by florists, chocolate manufacturers, card makers and all the rest to buy things for the woman who selfishly chose to have you in the first place strikes me as a rather odd idea. Having a child is surely the most self-indulgent act of them all and I, for one, don't expect to be thanked for it. I'm a lucky woman and my children have all turned out to be thoroughly nice human beings, whose company I enjoy and who all offer me affection, friendship and generosity all year round. What more could I hope for? Well, apparently, a special day when I  must be rewarded for doing those things that I willingly, and knowingly, signed up for in the first place. No. I don't need it. Indeed, I sometimes think I should be rewarding them for tolerating my efforts as a mother, because I'm damned sure I often fell short!  I was useless at board games, and that's just for starters.

And now I'm going to tell you a secret. I didn't like my mother. There were moments when I hated her. Is that a sharp, collective intake of  breath that I hear? Well sorry, I can't change the truth. But it wasn't always so. As a child I adored her. In my teens her flaws began to dawn on me and by adulthood it had become very, very complex. We were two grown up people, with absolutely no values in common and opposing views of the world in general. Now, normally when that sort of situation arises the two adults concerned can simply agree to differ, go their separate ways and never look back. But we were stuck with the ties that bind, or rather I was. Many people, who knew us both well, urged me to save myself the anguish and simply break all contact with her, but it wasn't that simple. Of course it wasn't. For one thing, not seeing her would have made it difficult for me to have contact with others whom I loved deeply, and I couldn't risk that. And my mother, for her part, simply could not, or would not, understand why her words and actions caused me so much grief and expected, nay demanded, that I was the dutiful daughter she expected me to be, regardless of how she chose to treat me. Sadly, she failed to grasp that dutiful does not equate with loving. They are two very different things.

Ok, that's the serious bit dealt with. I could produce a few thousand  words, trying to fathom what turned a seemingly reasonable human being into an embittered, racist, homophobic, fascist snob, intent on alienating just about everybody who might had any affection for her, but whilst it might be therapy for me it'd be bloody boring for you, so I wont. It wasn't all her own fault, of course. It's never that simple and our life experiences can bend us out of shape, but that doesn't excuse everything. Anyway, I promised not to bang on about it, didn't I, so this is me stopping and getting back to my main theme of the Mother's Day phenomena.

I'm sure I'm not alone in regarding it all as a bit dubious, and I'm equally sure that there will be plenty more people like me who actually weren't very keen on their mothers, whether they admit to it or not.   But people like us aren't catered for. I've spent ages trying to select the card that I was expected to come up with whilst, at the same time, trying not to be a total hypocrite. So many of those over-priced bits of paper bore mawkishly sweet messages of uncritical adoration and expressed emotions that I simply didn't feel and definitely didn't want to be railroaded into professing. I could find nothing with a tasteful picture on the front and something on the lines of, 'Mum, I hope you have a nice day,' inside. That would have covered it. I certainly didn't want to wish a nasty day on her, I'm not that vindictive, but I just couldn't bring myself to give her the usual, 'God made angels and then sent them down to earth to be mothers,' style of crap. I ploughed through so much turgid verse and over-blown prose that I'd leave the shop feeling quite sickly. I reckon somebody's missing a trick. I bet there's a market out there for the non-commital Mother's Day card. They could go under the heading 'Alternative Mother's Day Cards, for the kid with a grudge.' I bet they'd fly off the shelves.

And then there's the flowers. The traditional Mother's Day gift of choice. All those dear little children, handing over their pocket money for a bunch of wilting daffodils, that would have cost half the price the week before, and that'll be dead in a day or two. It makes me cross because it's mean and grasping and exploitative, and terribly disappointing for all concerned...oh, except the flower seller. I'd like to think they sleep ill at nights, but I doubt it.  And it's no better when you get older and can afford to go a bit more up-market. The prices still mysteriously rocket during this particular weekend, and the results are definitely not worth it. In fact it seems the less you get the more it costs. You can pay an arm and a leg for a couple of flowers and an aesthetically pleasing twig, held together with a bit of string. They'll tell you it's 'minimalist chic'. It isn't. It's a load of old wank and the florist is laughing all the way to the bank. Don't be fooled. The standard bunch of garage forecourt blooms, in their bit of cellophane, might be much maligned but at least it's honest.

The Mother's Day lunch is the next tradition to rouse my ire. If your children disappear into the kitchen and come back with a slice of lukewarm  toast and a cup of greyish tea on a tray adorned with a couple of dandelions from the back garden then all well and good. I have revelled in many such feasts myself, and loved the labour that went into them.  But lunchtime, on Mothering Sunday, in the average eating hole is hell. Of course it's nice to have a break from the kitchen, but not at the same time as the rest of seething humanity. Overcrowded restaurants, with over-worked staff, don't make for relaxing eating.  And one glance at the faces of the other diners is enough to convince that not many of them think it's a great idea either. Eating is a pleasure. Eating with people you love, in relaxed and harmonious surroundings, is a joy. Why do it any other way?  Why do it when it's least likely to be fun? And this is what I keep coming back to. If you love people you'll do nice things with them at times that happen to be mutually agreeable, without being told that you should.

Being a mother is a privilege.  So is being loved. It's not a right, it has to be earned, like respect, and I think most people probably know and appreciate that. I'm no paragon of a mother. I'm  a very, very long way from it. In fact, if I was granted a super power I'd choose time travel just so I could go back and try to right the wrongs I've committed in my inept mothering. My only saving grace is that, unlike my own mother, I can see and own up to my failings, and apologise for them. And I suppose, oddly enough, that's actually the gift my mum gave to me, and it's a very valuable one. In my attempts not to be like her I might, just might, have avoided at least some of her mistakes...though I've undoubtedly made a few of my own. In the words of the late, great Philip Larkin:

          They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
          They may not mean to, but they do.
          They fill you with the faults they had
          And add some extra, just for you.

Which is an awfully gloomy view. But Larkin wasn't a parent himself. If he had been then maybe he'd have lightened up and discovered that it needn't be all bad. Far from it. Like I said at the start, I'm a very happy mother and my children are an endless source of pleasure, pride and so many other good things I can't possibly list them all here. But Mother's Day isn't about the children, it's about the mothers, and how they measure up. In which case, every day is mother's day so what's the fuss about? I don't always see my children on Mother's Day and I don't automatically expect to, not the way my mother did. But when they do come I know it's because they've chosen to, they're here from choice, free will and, hopefully, love. Certainly not duty. It makes the time we spend together a lot more meaningful.

So, mothers of the world unite. Let's stick up a finger at commercialism, and tell them to stuff Mother's Day. We don't need the crappy cards and drooping flowers. It's not necessary to spend money to show love and  affection. Words work better, and they come free. So, let's replace it with Children's Day, which wont cost anybody anything, when we'll just ask them to forgive us our shortcomings and then all go down the pub together. You coming?





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