A Mother of All Days

It was only two nights ago that Monkey Boy wanders towards me, slightly uncomfortable, and asks “What do you want for Mothers Day?”

“Are you serious?!” I reply.

It was two days away, I have been working my arse off and had my head well and truly stuck into some creative/technical stuff and can barely remember to eat, much less have a clue about what I want for Mothers Day.

Also … two days to go and he’s asking me that!

*sigh*

It is a worry, particularly as he’s still asking me yesterday, before I leave for basketball, and our return home sees significant delays due to, apparently, every body else’s children having left Mothers Day to this point and the traffic is banked up in every street around our local, massively-oversized shopping mall.

Which means every street around our house.

Which means it takes longer to get home, and I’m tired and grumpy.

Also, my PC’s hard drive had decided to tell me it was reaching capacity, so I had to head to stupidly, oversized shopping place anyway, to obtain yet another external hard drive. I have so much photo sorting to do it’s not funny.

Home first, stuff food in face, argue with Chippie about getting dressed so we can head to shops, explain 39 times why we are not driving there (it’s walking distance AND car parking issues due to lateness of a multitude of others forgetting their gift purchasing until today) and we set off.

Monkey Boy, the whole time around, is saying “Let me know what you want and I’ll get it now.”

This is not filling me with much delight. I want to get home, have a hot shower (because we were also rained on during our walk) and chillax.

My brain is not working enough to even know what I want, much less articulate this to someone else.

We do the rounds and we leave without my having given him any idea. I don’t mean it, I just can’t think.

I awake this morning, early. Not due to excitement – although, okay, maybe a little bit – but mostly due the sounds of excessive farting and snoring.

I contemplate bouncing into the kids’ rooms, whilst they are sleeping, and demand presents. It would be some sort of payback. But I can’t be arsed. Besides, whilst I set the coffee machine, I forgot to set the timer, so there’s nothing really worth getting up for.

There’s just not.

Chippie has climbed into our bed, and I hear his older brothers at the door, calling for him quietly. He is extracted from the warmth of the doona, and I hear much muttering and sticky taping and the like.

A MUG of coffee (and one for the flatulent, snoring, Grumpy One) is brought in, followed by a precession of boys bearing gifts.

Each one determined that I see their’s first has me lying flat on my back, laden with squabbling children and relatively well wrapped gifts.

Two clay necklaces from the primary school aged two, that they claim to have made themselves and a wooden jewellery box, filled with Lindt balls, an iTunes voucher and leftover change from the apparent Mothers Day Gift Budget.

Those who know me well know how much I love wooden boxes. I don’t know why or what the appeal is. I just do.

This box is perfect.

I tear up with how fantastic it is.

And feel just a little

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