|My mother and my daughter|
I was making conversation with some small boys in between lessons.
“So,” I asked wistfully, “What are you guys planning for Mother’s Day?”
“Do you think I should get her a present?”
“I’m sure your Mum isn’t expecting you to spend lots on her. But she’d probably appreciate a home-made card.”
Of course, I was talking about myself. So to whoever that Mum is who now doesn’t get an expensive present, Sorry.
For me, I had thought Mother’s day was a thing of the past. It is cruel of the gods to place Mothering Sunday in the middle of university term time.
Except of course, that some universities have ridiculously short terms.
Last year, wonderfully, Carenza was home in time. This year, however, she planned to stay on to do some work, which is exactly what I used to do. So I had gathered my expectations up and locked them away in a bottom drawer.
But then, we got the text:
“Can you collect me on Saturday? Want to come home for a break.”
Was that Handel’s Halleluiah Chorus I could hear playing?
I turned back to the boys:
“Breakfast in bed is good too.”
“I dropped mine half way up the stairs last year.”
“I didn’t even get out of the kitchen with mine.”