It was Mothering Sunday on March 18th…here in England, before you shake your heads!
For the first time I was able to celebrate this occasion. Read on before you are tempted to shake it again!
I have been a mother for many years and in America the celebration of my ability to bear children falls on the weekend closest to May 8th. I remember that particularly because it was my mother’s birthday and I could call her and wish her a,
“Happy Birthday and a Happy Mother’s Day for here!” too.
She’d laugh.
The only child on the same continent remembered me with a card, a lovely card I must say with words she’d written about me being,
“…the best mum a person could ask for. You have done so much for me. I could never repay you. Thank you for being so amazing to me. I love you Mumsie!”
I have to admit I never wrote anything like that in my mother’s cards. I always sent delightful ones that spoke for themselves.
My oldest son sent me an e-card with these words,
“I miss you and love you, thank you for making me as great a person as you did.”
An advertisement, with an animated jiggly tummy, caught my eye as I was playing the card, my inner confidence knew it was not directed at me so I giggled…
My youngest son sent me an e-mail from his iPhone,
“Hope you have a wonderful day. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I always tell people how awesome you are for devoting your life towards us kids and homeschooling us and raising us to be amazing people.”
My oldest daughter skyped me and said,
“I brag about you all the time, thank you for all you’ve done for me and showing me how to be the terrific person I am!”
I’m amazing, they’re amazing, I’m awesome, they’re awesome, I’m devoted, they’re terrific, I’m missed, they’re great!
Quite a team we make!
At the end of mass, the priest blessed dozens of posies and invited the children in the congregation to come forward and take one to give to their mothers.
I looked around and immediately knew I would not be recognised as a mother! Lots of little ones and older ones went forth to gather up a posy for their fabulous Mums.
When we had been dismissed and the altar party and choir had processed out my hubs went forward to get the mother of his children her very own posy. He handed it to me saying,
“It’s daffodils not posies.”
“It’s a posy,” I said.
“No,” he insisted, “three daffodils and some greenery.”
“A posy is a small bunch of flowers, any flowers, tied together.”
“A what?” asked my daughter on this side of the pond.
I used a familiar playground chant to illustrate the use of the word, a past admonition from my oldest daughter to,
“Use it in a sentence Mum!” still ringing in my ears, or was that my sore throat talking?
I recited the rhyme,
“Ring-a-ring of roses,
“A pocketful of posies,
“Atishoo, Atishoo,
“We all fall down!”
Posies were kept in pockets to hold up to noses when a vile smell became unbearable. The stench, along the streets of London, of rotting corpses during the plague not to mention the reek of polluted river water and open sewers, did nothing for the sweetness of the air in our fair city. Posies of strong smelling herbs and flowers did.
I have the fragrant posy on my desk, a spring reminder of a lovely day and new life.
For the first time I had no mother to wish a happy day to, but I was blessed by my children, fourfold.
Well hello there! My name is Vivienne McNeny.
I am an empty nester exploring life as a Boomer…you could say I'm happily Boomering along!
As a homeschooling Mum I have finally quit the job of role model and mentor to my four children. I do what I want to do, eat when I feel like it, enjoy life with my blue eyed cowboy and clean my house once a month or so whether it needs it or not!
In true English form I write about the emergence of my true identity now that I can no longer hide behind my children as their Mum.
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