There was nothing different about today. I still got bitten, vomited on, and howled at just the same. I got the exact same amount of slobbery kisses, wicked glinty grins, and warm little hands down my cleavage. I cleaned up the exact same amount of shit as yesterday, and I spent the same amount of hours tidying up mess, folding laundry, and soothing with the boob. I barely noticed it was Mothers’ Day.
There’s this romantic notion that Mothers’ Day is all about pampering, spoiling, and honouring mothers for the hard work they do. But when you’re a solo mum with a non-verbal child, it’s a bit of a non-event. During these baby years it’s the partner who buys the chocolates, picks the flowers, and helps the kid to make a card. I guess I could have done those things myself, but it’d have felt a bit weird. My kid is too young to make me a pet rock or pick out something horrible from Crazy Clarke’s. My kid is too young to bring me burnt toast in bed, or a cold cup of tea. My kid can’t even properly say mummy yet, let alone “happy mothers’ day, mum”. It was really lovely, then, to log into facebook today and see the solo parents forum feeds full of mums wishing each other a happy day. And it was even more lovely to meet up with a single mum friend for breakfast who had had the forethought to go out and buy us matching “best mum ever” mugs. Because we are, godammit, but there’s rarely anyone there to tell us. So if you’re reading this, go grab a solo mum and tell her she’s doing a fucking amazing job. I guarantee it’ll make a mother’s day.