In a strange land

It’s Mother’s Day down under in New Zealand and Australia (and elsewhere?). We don’t go in for Father’s Day and Mother’s Day much around here, or more precisely, as I wrote last antipodean Father’s Day, we don’t go in for the crass commercialisation that surrounds them. Coffee and breakfast in bed, and home made cards from the girls.

But the girls are getting rather more sophisticated about it. They organised their roles last night. Mr Strange Land would assist them by doing the actual cooking, the elder Miss Six would be the assistant chef, the younger Miss Six would be the waiter, and Miss Nine would make the coffee.

So first thing this morning, the younger Miss Six came in with a ‘napkin’ draped over her arm (actually a small yellow batik cloth) and glasses of juice for both of us. She came in very solemnly and handed the glasses to us carefully, but then skipped out of the room. Miss Nine followed a few minutes later with coffee. And then they all gave me the cards and books they had made.

Miss Nine made a lovely circular card. There are two circles of card, joined together with a pin at the centre. The upper card turns around, and a slot in it reveals words underneath on the lower card. The note on the upper card says, “Dear Mum, a brumby forgets her mother after she leaves. But I’ll always think of you as my mother. You are…” And there follows a list of adjectives, each shown one by one in the slot. “Impressive, wonderful, kind, fun, amazing, funny, nice, unique, pretty, marvellous, delightful, enchanting, enjoyable, lovable, pleasant, attractive, reassuring, sympathetic, encouraging, exciting.”

The younger girls made books at school, titled, “My Mum”. Each page has standard text, with space for the children to write in their own words.

My mother wears many hats in my family (accompanied by what I assume are pictures of me, with hats perched all over my head, arms, shoulders, wherever they could squeeze one in.)

My mother is a chef. I love it when she makes me…. cooked pig, it is good / lamd pie.

And so on. My favourite one:

My mother is a cleaner. When she sees my room she says it is good today / wot a pig sty.

The Miss Nine played a piece on the piano that she had composed especially for me. Mr Strange Land made poached eggs on toast, and the assistant chef found a flower in the garden to go on the tray.

It has been a very satisfactory Mother’s Day. I’m still in my pjs, ‘though sooner or later I will get out of bed, and we’re heading out for a picnic with friends at what is said to be the best playground in Adelaide, on what is a beautiful autumn day. We have not told our girls about its reputation, because their previous experience at what I think is the best playground in the world might result in disappointment.

Later on, I will call my own lovely mother, and think again about the connection from my beautiful girls to me to her, to her own mother and foremothers before her. That, for me, is the best way to mark Mother’s Day.