Cards

So: Mothers’ Day.

At the time of writing this it isn’t yet Sunday so in order to be topical I am getting a little ahead of myself.

I have got two cards, which I haven’t yet opened: one is from Oliver which he has made at school, and the other one, judging by the handwriting on the envelope, is from Number One Son-In-Law. I imagine he has reminded his wife to sign it. I think his mother has trained him well in this sort of department, he is much better organised than our half of the family, who are all rather slapdash.

I wasn’t really expecting any cards, because we don’t tend to do things like that. I know my children love me, especially when they are broke, and have never felt any further need of tangible evidence of emotional attachment, there is more than enough evidence if you look at my bank statements over the years. In fact they have been in touch, there was an email from Lucy which turned out not to contain a Mothers’ Day greeting but a request that we go to Florence on our holidays this summer since she is doing well at school and would like to meet up with some of her friends who have a house there. She is already going canoeing in the Ardeche with some other school friends, so I am not particularly sympathetic to her unholidayed state, and we have’t got any money at all anywhere so I have written back and told her no, it will have to be Blackpool in the camper van again, same as every year, which I am quite sure she will be able to enjoy if she puts her mind to it.

I haven’t actually sent my own mother a card either, about which I am feeling vaguely guilty. I thought about it last week, intended to do it closer to the time and thus paved my own peaceful little road to Hell, because of course I promptly forgot. I have considered pretending that I sent a card and that the post was just delayed, or getting my brother to forge my signature on his, both of which I have done in the past with reasonably convincing results: but I am just going to have to bite the bullet and own up to being rubbish.

In fact it wasn’t my worst worry: I got a text from Number One Daughter this morning with a picture of a Spiderman birthday cake and Ritalin Boy dressed up as Spiderman. I was instantly filled with horror that I had forgotten his birthday yet again (I don’t think I have managed to remember it at all yet, and am not positively certain how old he is). Anyway, fortunately she phoned and reassured me that his birthday is not until next week, today is just his birthday party and he and his friends are going off to an animal farm play attraction for the day, which sounds unspeakably horrible, and I was profoundly glad that all of my offspring are past such carrying on. So now I have got to not forget his birthday next week as well. Grandparents are supposed to remember these things, I need to check with her when it actually is and get organised. I get a bit confused on account of it being so very close to their wedding anniversary, which happens first but only just, naughty Number One Daughter.

I don’t actually think it is funny not to be organised about this sort of thing, but rather bad mannered really, and I admire and value very much the friends I have got who manage to do it better. However, my favourite way of managing it all is the No-Guilt arrangement I have got with my friend Elspeth and one or two members of my family. The deal is that we completely ignore each other’s birthdays, the children’s birthdays, Christmas and every other possible event. Thus we avoid ever having to look grateful for surprise bath salts and hand cream and a horrible card that says: To A Wonderful Friend: but most importantly we never, ever need to feel the depressing, worried pressure of oh-my-goodness-it’s-the-day-after-tomorrow-and-didn’t-I-get-her-bath-salts-last-Christmas? Being let off that ghastly anxiety is the nicest present anybody can give me, in my opinion.

Of course, I like getting presents, especially if they are bottles of wine and chocolate and expensive soap: but paradoxically feel guilty about giving these very items, because it makes it look as though I hadn’t bothered to think about what the person would really like. If anybody ever wants to buy me a present, let me save you the anxiety from this moment onwards: pop into Bargain Booze on your way over, they are open late so there isn’t even any rush. I will be perfectly and delightedly happy with a bottle of red, especially if you say: “No, no, this one is for drinking now. Save that and drink it yourself later.”

What a splendid way to know oneself loved. Not that I need showing anyway.