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Sunday, May 8, 2016

Happy Mother's Day to All Neglected Mothers

My darling Mum at about 5 years of age.

I love mother’s day now that my five kids are all in their early twenties.

Back when they were little, they’d fight about whose embroidered face towel/secondhand Beatrix Potter statue/Engelbert Humperdink CD/ avocado soap/ toxic, fluorescent bath salts, was the best present… but now there’s no fighting at all.

Mainly because there are no presents to speak of.

But that’s okay.

I know. It’s my own fault because I left my all kids back in Townsville. I abandoned them for a new life on the mountain, so why should they bother with me anymore?

There is one son working in Brisvegas at the moment, so Scotto and I made the onerous trip up on a train to that hideous place yesterday so I could shout my son lunch for Mother’s Day.

God I hate Brisbane. I don’t think there’s a worse place on Earth (aside from Bowen). The only good thing about Brisbane is the bus drivers. I know this because the train line was under repair so all the cranky commuters from the Gold Coast had to disembark the train halfway through the journey and catch a succession of fudging buses to get to Southbank.

It was very confusing but the bus drivers took pity on us and one driver even let us on for free. It may have been due to my limping what with the blisters from all the walking and everything.

But despite the irritating bother of travelling that inconvenient distance, it was okay because I was so looking forward to seeing my bonny baby son.

My last born babe promised to let us buy him lunch to celebrate my special day at 1:00 pm, you see, and I was quite excited. But as Scotto and I sat patiently drinking our wine at 2:15 with rumbling tummies and he still hadn’t turned up, I sent him a text enquiring as to his whereabouts.

“No sorry,” he texted back very politely. "No buses until 3:10pm, mother. Can’t make it.”

But that’s okay because it meant I didn’t have to pay for his lunch and saved myself some money. It’s all good. Please don’t feel sorry for me.

I thought it was odd that the buses from his location in Brisbane were so infrequent, but never mind. I’m sure he tried his hardest. It was a mother’s day celebration after all and I knew he’d attempted everything in his power to get there.

It probably had nothing to do with hangovers or apathy or anything. I shouldn’t let my imagination get the better of me.

So I decided, after my bittersweet disappointment, that instead of worrying about myself this mother’s day, I would enjoy spoiling my own dear mother. We have to grow up and realise it’s not always about us some time, I suppose.

Scotto took portraits of Mum’s beloved spaniels and we had canvas prints made of them to give to her. Plus, for the first time in years I can have her around for lunch since she just lives down the road now.

I think it’s time I allowed my chicks to flutter from the nest and time for me to spend more time with my own parents. It’s the circle of life really. I just hope my kids are there for me when I get older. 

Like when I’m on my deathbed... I’d really like them to show up.

As long as there are no buses involved it should be okay.

Happy Mother’s Day.

P.S. Thank you to Thaddeus for the surprise parcel and the salt and pepper shakers in the shape of terriers and the dog shampoo. They are very lovely. You are still in the will. xxx