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Thursday, January 31, 2013

A Mother's Day to Remember

You would assume that with five loving teenage and young adult children, Mother’s Day for me would be a day beginning with a magnificent breakfast in bed, a multitude of thoughtful and expensive presents, lots of funny stories told and family jokes rehashed over a well- presented, delicious lunch…

No. That has never happened.

On the eve of the big day one of them will usually indifferently ask me what I would like for Mother’s Day. This query is normally solicited at about six o’clock when it’s too late to hightail it up to Myers anyway.

“Nothing, nothing at all,” I will reply through gritted teeth. “I just ask that you be pleasant to me for the day.”

The next morning is employed with rushed and secretive phone calls as Thaddeus is enlisted to ferry various individuals to the shops.

One by one the ingrates will front up with a hastily Christmas paper wrapped parcel.

At least now that three of the kids are over eighteen I can usually count on some prescription medicine from Dr. Dan Murphy.

When they were little I would give them money to haggle with at the Mother’s Day stall at school.One year Lulu gave me a chipped statue of a cocker spaniel that I swear I had donated to the bric-a-brac store at the school fete the year before.

They were fiercely competitive about their selected presents back when they were young; mocking and belittling any presents bestowed on me by their siblings. 

One year, Padraic (about eight at the time) had decided to trump the others and sidestep the school stall. He had conned his father into taking him to every mother’s favourite exclusive boutique, Crazy Clarks.

Eagerly eyeballing me in anticipation, Padraic carefully watched for my reaction as I opened my gift.

“Padraic! I can’t believe you bought me a CD! Engelbert Humperdinck! Now stop fighting and don’t listen to Thaddeus, I love Engelbert Humperdinck! What would Thaddeus know? I really love it Padraic!”

“Really Mum?” Thaddeus chimed in scornfully. “Where did you get it Padraic, the two dollar bin?”

I prudently placed the CD on the table and went to the kitchen to make a coffee.

I heard World War Three break out in the lounge. In a condescending and provocative fashion, twelve year old Thaddeus had spitefully opened the cellophane from the CD in order to get a closer look at the artifact. 

With the exquisite gift now defiled by his brother’s filthy hands, Padraic detonated.

He picked up the CD, took off the case, snapped the disc in half, threw it on the floor and stomped off.

That set the tone for the remainder of the day.