In my country, we have Mothering Sunday. That’s today.
It’s the fourth Sunday in Lent, if anyone is interested in the jigsaw puzzle of the Christian calendar, and it remembers St. John of the Ladder, or St. John Climacus (Climacus – climb – ladder; gettit? Don’t you just love Latin?). It was once called Laetare Sunday, and is variously still known as Refreshment Sunday or Rose Sunday. The latter because, apparently, of a golden rose traditionally sent by the Pope to Christian sovereigns. Why? Because Wikipedia says so, that’s why.
These days, Christian sovereigns are probably sick of an ever-growing stack of golden roses: the pot in the royal throne room (the one just beneath the self-portrait of George W. Bush) is likely to be over-brimming with the things. As for refreshment Sunday, that’s intended to mean refreshment of religious vows, rather than setting up a canteen in the vestry – or so I’m told. Anyway, moving on.
In secular terms, as our beloved Archbishop is fond of saying, Mothering Sunday has simply become Mother’s Day, and though its origins are different to the American version, the essence of the festival is much the same.
It’s the day the chickens come home to roost.
For our grown-up chickens have a duty that must be fulfilled. Our door must be visited, flowers must be presented, platitudes offered.
“Sorry, I know it’s not much this year, Mum. We’re seriously short of money. What with the alterations to the house, the new Jacuzzi and Amanda’s kitchen makeover, there’s not much left to go round.”
“You’ll be planning your budget really carefully, then?”
“Yes. That’s what the weekend in Florence was all about. Just sitting down in a nice Trattoria with some wine and talking it over.”
‘I don’t suppose the 5K your father lent you entered your thinking?’ No, that’s a question that remains unasked; more because you fear the answer, than the risk of killing the conversation.
As for ourselves, we are past the age when we have mothers of our own, so Mother’s Day represents no major digression from our usual Sabbath routine. Were we church-goers it might mean a service in a church where the faithful have made a bit of an effort: a few flowers, some of what only a Christian congregation can call ‘gaiety’. As it is, all we have to sacrifice is our sleep. Rising at the crack of dawn is strongly advisable, because the progeny will be queuing at the end of the road waiting for sunrise.
The first knock comes at seven am.
“Hello Dad – not too early, is it?”
“My, those flowers look nice.” (The all-night garage always raises its act for Mother’s Day).
The next knock comes at eight-thirty.
“Hello, Mummy, you look a bit pale. Are you ailing?”
“Lack of sleep, dear. My, those flowers look nice.” (Discretion demands you conceal the first bouquet because the second one is likely to be identical).
By ten o’clock the fog of children will have dispersed and life will have returned to normal. A day of creative flower-arranging beckons while we try to analyze our success-rating with our offspring (tricky, this one: do we regard the very earliest arrival as the most ardent, or simply the one who wants to get the onerous event over soonest?) and express our admiration for the innate sense of timing involved. The earlier visitor will always contrive to be gone before the second arrives, because they do not ‘get on’ with one another.
What then, if anything, does Mothers Day signify – for us, the ex-parents, the holders of the torch everyone is waiting so eagerly for us to put down? Enjoyment of a traditional family day when those we withstood for eighteen or so childhood years return to haunt us, briefly; or merely another clutter of cards, a few more needlessly sacrificed trees? Or something in between? Do the fruits of our loins observe the tradition because they want to, because they feel that need to reconnect to their roots, or rather through a desire to check that we haven’t sold the Ming vase that sits in their half of the will?
It is hard to give answers. A wise owl on one shoulder might express the opinion that there are too many days in a year when family is meant to honor its obligations to its adjacent generation, whilst the wise owl on the other might claim that family unity is the cement that binds society together, and therefore cannot be reinforced too much. (At which point I might remind myself that certain Sicilian families of recent history were very strong on the use of cement in resolving family issues).
My solution? I accept what I cannot change. I do not seek the answers. After all, these shoulders are big enough for two owls: why put one in a position where it has to peck the eyes out of the other – and which owl would win?
Which of our prodigal children will stay long enough to convince us they are happy to be here? Who will listen rapturously as we regale them with details of our IBS symptoms, or try to persuade them to join our line-dancing class? Who might even stay to lunch?
Ah well, tick the diary for another year. Then cast forward to their next return to the fold – about a week after my birthday, perhaps.