When, I thought, does Mothering Sunday begin?
2pm on Sunday. I had attended church, served squash and biscuits to the cubs and scouts, sat through the Annual Parochial Church Meeting, cooked the lunch, washed up and mopped the kitchen and bathroom floors.
When, I thought, does Mothering Sunday begin?
7pm on Sunday. I had sorted the under-stairs cupboard, changed the sheets, crashed out of a Monopoly game with the children, made their tea, washed up, fetched in the coal, unblocked a drain and performed an emergency dash to Co-op.
And it began to dawn on me…
…I had relished every minute of it all. I don't usually find the vigour to bake after breakfast. The bed sheets had at least another month of wear left in them. The kitchen floor hasn't been washed since our tabby vomited up bird parts last autumn and ordinarily I leave my kids for hours on their iPods rather than face a board game.
But this Sunday I was unusually energised. Even the fistful of drowned slugs jamming the kitchen drain gave me satisfaction. And there was enough of this miraculous energy left over to be nice to my children who, startled by my novel sunniness, suspended hostilities, ate my stew without weeping and hung the laundry on the drying rack.
It struck me then - a truth I have never realised before. Mothering Sunday is not about being feted by my children; it's about earning them. The chores were a tribute, not drudgery.
Today I have lapsed back into my customary cantankerousness. There was nothing invigorating about packing the school lunch boxes. But, when I quail at the thought of enduring Key Stage 2 spelling lists this evening, I shall try to remember yesterday when I was newly grateful for my children, instead of expecting them to be grateful for me.
How was it for you?
