Mother’s Day – or Mothers’ Day or Mothers Day

This announcement was born as a boast but I make it today as a confession: I DON’T BELIEVE IN MOTHER’S DAY.* I don’t honour it, I don’t observe it (unless with quizzical disdain), I don’t respect it, (excepting as a smart marketing exercise. What began as a means of selling greetings cards in the off-season found eager recruits in floristry and in restaurantry – as well as in cafetery and lingerie. Mother/s Day has all the hallmarks of Hallmark and the hallmarks of the pulsing of empty cultures in new countries and guilty sons in the pub, at the footy, at work, at play – at living outside extended family.)

Climbing down from my lofty position of cultural oversight into the kitchen of my own life, I can identify a serious gap: my mother and I have not spoken to each other for almost five years.

I have dreamed of her. I have dreamed she dreams of me. Mum died in June 2009 and I miss her. I do not mourn for Mum: I grieve for my loss, for the delight of her company. Mum always made me smile. Always. In her breathless dying week I watched as Mum suffered one particularly horrifying attack: she gasped at air. It went on and on, as her lungs filled higher and higher with the fluid that would drown her at week’s end. I called a nurse, Nurse squirted a diuretic into Mum, the breathing slowed and Mum pulled off her oxygen mask, grinning: “You thought I was going to croak, didn’t you, darling? Well” – Mum was cackling now in the hilarity of the merry joke that was all her existence – “I didn’t, did I?”

In my kitchen of now, I fry tomatoes and eggs and red kidney beans with onions fried in oil with garlic and smoked paprika and cumin. I serve this and avocado bathed in fresh lime juice and garlic-infused olive oil on a mountain of fresh bagels and specialty breads. All is prefaced by a glass of orange juice squeezed by my grandchildren. We serve this to the children’s grandmother and great-grandmother. Everyone gives gifts, festoons and cards (handmade, unHallmarked) to the old ladies. And I watch, a non-combatant. I look at my mother in law, fulfilled, filled with years. I come in, in from my chill principles, and I celebrate with them all.

*I’ve always felt the same away about Fathers Day and Valentines Day too.

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Nonmother’s Day

Apparently Mother’s Day is neither a public holiday nor a religious holy day. Anyone who is not a believer is nevertheless a moral outcast. Even Al Capone loved his mum, one day of the year. Mother’s Day is not ancient, rather it is the brainchild of a marketing opportunist at a greetings card company. The same is true of Father’s Day.

There is a problem with both Days: where to place the apostrophe. Is it the day of the one and only mother you happen to be celebrating? If so, it is Mother’s Day. But if all mothers, from the Madonna onwards, are celebrated, it becomes Mothers’ Day. But as mothers become more numerous, sentiment is diluted. Unless you are a politician gift wrapping pre-election pork for the barrel, you can’t get teary over every mother in the cosmos.

What should make us tearful is the abuse of the apostrophe. In the fruit shop – Lovely Navel’s; in the supermarket – New Seasons Spud’s; at the pharmacy – Retread your Old Condom’s Here.