The Times Magazine 5bit of a “special cuddle” does, in theory, arise.
But then this opens an epistemological
worm-can. Should you have “Mother’s Day-
themed sex”? Because if it’s the day where,
theoretically, “Mummy has a rest,” then,
presumably, any sexings that require particular
effort on the woman’s part should be swerved.
I’m not going to be graphic with my list
here, but I think it’s safe to say that anything
that involves wear and tear on your joints,
repressing a reflex, potential RSI or a “special
bra” would be considered “contrary to the
spirit of the event”.
On the other hand, saying, “I’m just going
to lie here while you do stuff to me,” seems
very unfeminist, and you gotta be super-
feminist on Mother’s Day. It’s the day that
celebrates womankind’s unique, painful
and generous ability to continue the human
race. Indeed, there’s an argument to be
made that true “Mother’s Day sex” would
simply be women sitting fully clothed in an
armchair, wearily reciting all the sex they’re
no longer having since they became mothers.
- Sandwich Mother’s Day-ing. “Sandwich
carers” is the term for middle-aged women
who have to care both for children and ageing
parents at the same time.
Similarly, on Mother’s Day, if you are a
mother who not only has children and her
own mother but also her partner’s mother
to consider, it might very well turn out that
the amount of Mother’s Day-ing you get
to enjoy is, well, but a small slice of ham,
squashed between the two breads of your
respective mammas.
Ours can’t be the only family to have spent
Mother’s Day first bombing up to Birmingham
at 7am to deliver a Mother’s Day brunch to
my husband’s mother, then bombing back
down to Brighton to give my mother an
afternoon tea. And we don’t have any second
marriages or stepmothers to think about.
Imagine being one of Richard Pryor’s kids.
He got married seven times. Those kids have
so many mother-figures in their lives, they
must be petitioning for a Mother’s We e k just
to get through them all.
In these circumstances, the amount of
Mother’s Day-ing a Sandwich Mother can
expect is pretty minimal: no breakfast in
bed, two travel-sick children in a Ford Galaxy
instead of a bubble bath, and what could
be fairly described as “a peevish yet real”
annoyance that, despite being given a bunch
of flowers at 6am, you’ve spent all day away
from them. They’re still in a pan, in the sink,
at home. You’ve missed “the best” of them.
They’ll just be ever so slightly past perfect
when you get home at 9pm. You’ve not
“had the benefit”. This makes you
disproportionately sad.
And, of course, the only thing that will
ever resolve this situation is when both your
mums die. For Mother’s Day to work, it really
has to be Mother’s Day and not Mothers’ Day.
You can only truly be happy when you are the
only mother left standing on the battlefield of
mothering. Christ, that’s dark. No wonder
having booze for breakfast is such a
mandatory part of the day.- The dog doesn’t know it’s Mother’s Day.
Once your children are past a certain age,
when you consider all the beings that you
“mother”, you realise you kind of... love the
dog the most.
But don’t worry! This is but Nature’s Kind
Way – it prevents you from being too “clingy”
with teenage children who are apt to roar,
“UGH! YOU’RE SUFFOCATING ME!” when
you hug them.
Dogs, by way of contrast, not only love
being hugged, but will then also roll over
onto their backs, so you can scratch their
bellies and love them even more. Dogs have
mums wrapped around their little fingers.
Paws. Legs. Whatever.
“I bet if you knew this was Mother’s Day,”
you say to the dog, looking into her eyes,
“you’d throw me the best Mother’s Day
ever. You truly adore and appreciate me,
don’t you? You’d make the other, human
children feel shamed by their lacklustre
efforts. You’d take me to Paris. You’d really
celebrate our love.”
What the dog is really thinking, of course,
is, “This is all a sore point, lady. I can’t be a
mother since you unilaterally decided to get
me my ‘big girl operation’. Observe – all
around us, the ghosts of my unborn puppies!
They haunt me, day and night! THERE IS NO
MOTHER’S DAY FOR ME!”
But I don’t know any of this, because my
husband has thoughtfully written, “I love you,
Mummy, love Luna,” in a card, in shaky “dog
writing”, and so the mad charade continues
for another century. n