Mothering Sunday & Fraudulent Flowers

These are the flowers that we all pretended today my 2 year old purchased for his darling mama. Of course when I tried to persuade him to hand them over he elected instead to crush a number of the stems in his hot little fist while laughing maniacally in my face. Which is rather what I feel the rural Sussex florist was doing behind my back when she added £10 to the price, having elicited from me that I was from London, and a further £10 penalty for being a barrister.

I can never really tell where Mothering Sunday falls in the pecking order of Christmas, Valentine's Day, birthday, wedding anniversary, first date, first time we went to Waitrose together of essential dates that any sensible husband remembers if he knows what's good for him. All I know is that it takes a braver man than me to find out what the consequences are of ignoring it.

The thing is, I know what my wife would prefer to a bunch of flowers, howsoever fragrant; it is sleep, a Celine handbag and never having to change a nappy again: in that order. You might think that handbag is crazy expensive but it is nothing compared to paying for live in childcare.

The problem with 2 year olds, and yes I know there is more than one, is that trying to get them on board with the whole Mothers' Day thing is an exercise in futility. Next year I'm going to skip the whole cold, rubber eggs in bed thing and take him straight to fixing her a dry gin Martini when she walks through the door at the end of the day, but for now, it's on me.

And I must confess that this evokes in me a confused feeling. Because as I bashfully present bouquet and card insisting she is the world's best mum I can't help remembering the many, many occasions on which she has tersely reminded me: I'm not your mother, you know.