I don’t know how other people do Mother’s Day, but for me, it’s an ordeal. It’s also a yearly reminder that my husband doesn’t give two shits that I’m a mother—as long as his own mother’s needs are met. My kids? They do the absolute bare minimum. They only reflect on their effort once I lose my shit. Then things shift in one of two ways:
- They sulk, flinch, and drop their gaze like they’ve been scolded by God himself.
- They turn into overly compliant Dobby-like slaves. Frantically cleaning my path as if they were curling, angrily muttering at each other to hurry up. Both trying to predict my next move like they’re playing chess for their lives.
And then there’s the fun part: squeezing in visits to both my mum and my mother-in-law. It’s like a smash-and-grab operation, with the added complexity of factoring in my four sisters’ schedules. Normally, we all head to my mum’s in the morning, armed with breakfast groceries. We cook breakfast together (yes, even my sisters who are also mums), shove food into the kids’ faces, and then send the kids and husbands off to some weekend activity camp.
Oh, did I mention the husbands? They sit there, being fed and watered like pampered houseplants. Meanwhile, my mum is at the dining table, giving zero shits, eating her croissant starter with hot tea.
Once the husbands and kids are gone, we finally sit down to eat our breakfast in peace, drink endless cups of tea, and gossip. It’s a purge—funny stories mixed with venting. But then there’s my eldest sister. She always uses this time to moan. It starts slow, steady—complaints about her manager—and then ramps up to money issues, her crumbling house, how exhausted she is… blah, f***ing blah. She rarely asks how anyone else is. She’s a bit of an energy vampire, sucking the life out of the room.
By the time she leaves—always skulking off early—she’s like the rabbit from Alice in Wonderland, running around, muttering, “I’m late! I’m late! For a very important date!” It’s only once she’s gone that you realise she’s excreted so much shit, you’ve got skid marks.
After that, my husband picks me up (post-hockey game, of course) and takes me straight to his mum’s house. This is where the real fun begins. We bring cake and snacks, and I get grilled the whole way there: “Did you eat too much at your mum’s? You better eat something at mine.”
The problem is, I can’t eat where I don’t feel welcome. It’s a physical reaction—my throat closes up.
At his mum’s, I’m not allowed to mention visiting my own mum earlier. If I do, she gets jealous. She doesn’t even like hearing that her son has been to my parents’ house. More than once, he’s taken her call while we’re at my mum’s, stepping out of the room to whisper. She’s a woman with her own family, but apparently, mine should live in the shadows. The girls’ family.
When we get to her house, we sit in front of the TV. The light from the screen reflects off all our faces, and no one talks. I used to try—initiating conversation, creating an atmosphere—but I gave up years ago. It ended after one particular remark. I casually mentioned how interesting it would be to see the dynamic shift if we had a third child. Her response?
“Why don’t you look after the two you’ve got first?”
That was the nail in the coffin.
Why did I accept that bullshit for so long? Growing up, there was this inherent belief that the boy’s side of the family is more important. We didn’t have any boys in our family, so we learned that the girl’s side should shut up, know their place, and be grateful for scraps.
Now, when I’m at my MIL’s house, I barely talk. I’ll answer direct questions but never ask any. Why? Because I don’t give a shit. If you’re going to ask someone questions, you should actually care about their answers—and I don’t. It’s sad it’s come to this, and I’m glad my father-in-law isn’t around to see it.
This year, my husband was away on business and flying back on Mother’s Day morning. My kids both had weekend activities that didn’t finish until 5 p.m., and my husband, exhausted from his flight, stayed home to rest. He didn’t come to see my mum but did “pop in” to see his.
After leaving the house at 8 a.m. and not getting home until late evening, I walked through the door to hear a loud, audible sigh. My husband exclaimed, “I’m so tired!”
My Mother’s Day present, you may wonder? A pen and a photo album with three pictures in it. Turns out the printer broke.
Another year, and I got f***ed.
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