I love the sentiment of Mother’s Day – a day to acknowledge our years of domestic suffering, honoured with some ugly slippers or a dressing gown. This isn’t what we want. What we want is much simpler than that, and you don’t have to go anywhere to get it.
You’ve already got it. It’s called engagement. We want you to see what we do. We want you to praise us for what we do and then we want you to start doing it too. Don’t just make us breakfast…give us a BREAK!
I don’t want slippers. I don’t want flowers. I don’t want a shitty card with a dumb poem written by some weirdo at Hallmark. I want you to write one for me. With your sweat.
I want you to wipe the bench. I want you to put your stuff away. I want you to take out the bins. When the bin is full, I want you to change the bag. And if the bin is filthy and covered in weird unidentified rubbish goo, then I want you to wash it out. This will make me love you more than the others.
Don’t believe us when we say we don’t have favourites. If you make me a cup of tea, and then put the milk away, you are definitely the fave!
It’s not rocket science. If it was, then men would be doing it. Put that toaster down, I don’t need it. It won’t stave my resentment in the way enacting grovelling gratitude will. I want you to see that washing does not magically appear in your wardrobe. A woman you know well put it there.
I want you to stand for five hours and do my ironing... which is actually your ironing and everyone else’s, but somehow mysteriously ‘mine’. I want you know how to iron something other than your hair. I want you to know where the vacuum cleaner is and how to turn it on and that when it stops working it's not because it's broken, it's because the bag is full and needs replacing. There is a shop that sells them. The same woman who does your washing has to remember the model number and to drop by the store.