Mother’s Day is hard.

I knew it was coming. All the pink cards in the shops. All the schmultzy ads that sneak in via email. All the pairs of pyjamas I don’t need but seem suddenly very essential….Mother’s Day.

Just the name of the day creates a myriad of feelings and thoughts. I’ve always treaded fairly carefully around this day. My mum was not a fan. The day was filled with a sense of obligation. It never seemed about celebrating motherhood. It was about being in the right clothes. I recall a blue velvet dress with a white collar and black patent leather shoes. It was about being in the right place. I remember one year it was at ‘Leonda’, a very posh venue on the banks of the Yarra in Melbourne. It was about being at the right time. Did they always have ‘sittings’ for a Mother’s Day luncheon? I think we might have been late that year.

The year my Nanna died and my mum was now the senior and most important mum on Mother’s Day, I was away on my honeymoon. And though I wrote a reminder note to call her, it really wasn’t a big deal to her. At least that’s what she said.

Ten years later and I’m the mum of a gorgeous ten month old and suddenly this celebration has a new depth of meaning that I want to participate in. Now my mum is Nanna and she really doesn’t want to repeat the sins of the past, so trying to organise a family Mother’s Day event was, let’s call it…a challenge.

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You don’t have to do this for me.”

“I don’t need a Mother’s Day lunch.”

So finally, I let her know that it’s for me. I’m the Mum! I want to celebrate Mother’s Day.

And though she got on board and was lovely and proud of me for the mum I was and, for every year that she was still around to see me be, the mum I became, I still wonder why… why is Mother’s Day so hard?

Is it just me? Or do you feel it too?

This year she’s gone. She died last September. I know she’s free of her feeble failing body. I knows she’s free to dance now but I miss her. I even miss hearing her tell me that Mother’s Day is no big deal. I miss getting her something anyway. And I realised yesterday. I went to buy candles for my sons to give me. Ones I know I like, just in case…. and I thought, just for a moment, Ooh, I’ll get one for Mum. But I didn’t need to get one for her. I don’t need to buy my mum a present this year. It’s sad. I’m ok, feeling sad about it is a pretty normal feeling to have.

So now here I am, writing on the night before Mother’s Day. I’m writing my blog. Oh my goodness, Mum would be so proud of me. She knew, I love to write. She knew, I love the processing opportunity writing brings. She would tell me how brave I was to doing this.

Tomorrow morning I will wake with my two sons here. They might make me breakfast, they will definitely give me nice candles and I will be their Mum. No matter what else happens, I will still be their mum, their brave mum. After all my Mum told me I was brave, pretty sure she’s still saying, “She is still brave!”

Thanks Mum.


She’s brave….but what about me?

Here goes…..

This is my first official blog.  Apparently I think I might be brave.

I have to confess, it was a third person, ironic, look-in-the-mirror-and-hope-for- the-best kind of brave.

Then an interesting thing happened. I’m going to be a bit vague here because it’s recent and very real.

We all have people who bring out fear in us. We all, I believe, are trying to rise above that fear. So I made an invitation to someone to rise above with me. To my surprise, no I guess that’s not true, to my sadness they were unable to do so.

The words ‘best to avoid the fiery wrath’ are peculiar at best, terrifying at worst. And that is why I was sad. I knew what it was to avoid. I still do. We all do, don’t we?

Even in the midst of my sadness there was a small fire of my own. A fire that burnt with strength and courage. A fire that knows I don’t have to fear that wrath. A burning belief that I am not caught in that dance of avoiding.

And just when I thought my blog title was just a little bit hopeful, just a little bit tongue in cheek, just a little bit ironic….there she was! She was being brave, she still is. And she is me.