Sunday is Mothers Day here, and of course, all week my letterbox has been bombarded with catalouges full of 'gift ideas'.
Apparently though, as a Mother, the only things I must be in need of are slippers, dressing gowns, cooking utensils (can you imagine... "Here Mum, just to reinforce that the only thing you do around here is fill up the trough, here's a frypan." I see a frypan-erectomy resulting from that scenario), music by either Andre Rieu or Susan Boyle or a chintzy little tea mug.
Umm... exactly what sort of profile are Mothers getting these days? Even my mother sneers at the assumed interests of 'her set'. Frankly, she'd rather be dancing than knitting, cares not a jot for houseplants, and whilst she thinks mad old Sue has a great voice, would rather listen to Duffy.
As for the 20- and 30-something Mums out there, where's our catalouge? The one with cool, funky stuff that doesn't buy into the notion that the minute we produce another human, we forfeit all rights to having a lifestyle and interests on par with our non-human producing peers.
For the record, here's what I, a 32 year old Mum, would like for Mothers Day (Hubby, your ears should have pricked up right about now):
Tickets to Powderfinger's last ever concert in their hometown of Brisbane. Bernard, I heart you.
A signed first edition of To Kill A Mockingbird.
A day at a spa.
One of those funky silver necklaces where you put your child's thumbprint in the charm.
Enough moolah to go buy a great pair of black ankle boots for this winter.
And of course, a full nights sleep and the eternal gratitude of my child.
Actually, I kind of would like some of those cute Davenport home socks. Well, the tiles do get cold...
Just don't tell the catalouge people, okay?