When I buy my mum a gift, she usually looks at it and sighs. Then she’ll ask me where she’s supposed to keep it—mere sar vich? (In my head?). My mum doesn’t want us to waste money on her. Sometimes, depending on her level of frustration, she’ll add that when she dies, we’ll just throw all these things away. So what was the point?
Um… arrrrhhhh… it’s Mother’s Day/your birthday/Christmas!
My sisters shift uncomfortably behind me, clutching their own gifts to present to my mother. So, over the years, we started buying practical gifts.
We’d pool our money and get them something useful—like a holiday. An all-inclusive one, obviously, otherwise they’d refuse to spend money on food. Or maybe a new TV—to deter my dad from unscrewing the back of the old one and hoovering the inside. We’d all wince as we heard the Dyson on full power, likely sucking out vital components. Now the sound only comes through intermittently. They still watched it for a couple of weeks.
Nowadays, we buy them supplements—to try and keep them healthy and active. Or we plan days out.
But NOT to eat out, of course.
(What a waste of money—we could’ve just gone to the Gurdwara!)
My mother-in-law is a different story. She loves gifts. The whole performance of it.
But I could never quite get it right. There would always be something wrong with my gift. It was a house gift so not personal enough, the colour was not quite right or the version I had purchased was cheap. I normally congratulated myself on being a thoughtful, great gift buyer—so I thought I’ve got this, i can change her mind.
She enjoyed the whole “come over for dinner” vibe. She’d be waiting in a brand-new cardigan from M&S.
“Do you like it? I needed a beige one. I’ve got a cream and a brown, but no beige.”
Umm… okay?
“Well, if you needed it, then yes, it’s good you got it.”
But there is very little energy I can summon for a longline cardigan with pockets.
It’s a fucking cardigan, you have about 20 already. I would reply,
“It’s very nice. You’re right—you did need that colour.”
This colour goes with everything! It will change your life.
Then we’d order takeaway, cut a cake. Then came the present-giving.
My sister-in-law would have bought her something on point—perfume or clothing in her size. They would have had a discussion about what she wanted. None of these breadcrumb ideas would be shared with me.
I had no clue. My husband didn’t even know her dress size or shoe size. His main advice? “Just get her what I got my mum.”
Turmeric supplements? Really?
There was one year she told me she liked white jasmine. We were at my parents’ house. My mum has it growing in the garden—and my MIL basically pointed and said, “I want that.”
Right. That’s an idea. I told my husband, asked him to sort it out for her birthday.
He didn’t.
So, on the Saturday of her birthday dinner—after I finished a weekend class at 4pm. I scavenged the local shops and managed to get a card, a jasmine plant, and a cake from Patisserie Valerie.
I’m an impulsive person, my focus was getting a great gift. It was only as I was standing on a packed train, trying to balance my rucksack, a 2.5-foot jasmine plant, and a delicate cake encased in a thin chocolate wall, filled with fruit, that I thought: FUCK.
The train was rammed. I was jostled into the aisle. I desperately tried to wrap one arm around the rail and the other around the cake and plant. So stop myself landing head first in someone’s crotch. My arms were aching with the weight, my head hurt, and I was dog tired. But I was proud—I had managed to get her a thoughtful gift she might actually like it. Not just a fake smile and a head tilt with squinty eyes.
My husband picked me up from the station—well honestly, it was the least he could do. I walked into the house, arms full of gifts. I handed them over and said, “Happy Birthday.” She looked through me, lips tightly pursed, as she took the plant. No comment on how beautiful the flowers smelt, or where she’d plant it in the garden. I took the cake box through to the kitchen.
Both of her vaginally-birthed children stood there empty-handed. So now, this was the only present she had. She was pissed.
Suddenly, it didn’t look so good.
We cut the beautiful cake. Her face was still a bit off. So I asked, “Did you like your present?”
She replied, “The present is not just from you. It’s from all my children. I see no differences. What?
Background: the conversation I had with my SIL when I arrived revolved around all the online shopping she’d been doing.
All that shopping and no gift for your mum? What a dick. My mum would have picked me up on that, her mum? Nope.
We should keep in mind her reaction when I’m the only one who brings a gift. We her children are all the same.
The next Mother’s Day, we bought orchids from Tesco—hot property back then. We bought the same gift for my mum.
When we took it to her house, she told us that her own daughter (my SIL) had bought her the same thing. However, hers was from M&S.
“Isn’t it more beautiful? It is more expensive,” she said.
It took me a long time to realise—twenty years!—that the problem was never the gifts themselves. It was me. Or rather, the fact that they were from me. She would always think that my mother had received a better gift. Even spending time with both mums on Mother’s Day caused her offence.
Well, how long had you gone to your mum’s? My mum on the other hand used to openly tell us it was time to leave now, her head hurt.
So what do i do now? I give what I’m willing to give. I no longer spend hours pouring over items in shops on the hunt for something that brings her joy. No more circus performances. If i see something that she might like i either suggest it to my husband, or purchase it.
Newsflash: her birthday was over four weeks ago, and he still hasn’t taken her gift round. It is a gift that i purchased and kept for her. He has been round to see her, however has forgotten it on multiple occasions.
She bet on the wrong fucking horse.
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