Mother’s Day is nearly upon us. Or Migraine Day as it is known is our house. Last year Mothering Sunday was my first as a mother, and I looked forward to it with the anticipation of a child before their birthday.
Could I really lie in until 10 o’clock? What a treat! Would I get breakfast in bed? Would we go out for lunch? What would we do in the afternoon? Would cake be involved? Could it really be true that I wouldn’t have to do any cleaning for a whole day? The possibilities were endless.
None of the above was true, as it turned out. Misery Guts woke up with the start of one of his migraines, which tends to happen every couple of years. He promptly threw up all over the bathroom, and I mean all over. The sink, the toilet, the side of the bath, the floor, the scales: it was everywhere.
After 20 minutes cleaning that up, I set off to find a pharmacy open on a Sunday. Not as straight forward as you might think. After finally getting my hands on the necessary pills there was only one course of action left: Misery Guts would have to lie in a darkened room until the dratted migraine had passed. Usually at least 24 hours.
So that was that. Mothering Sunday down the drain, along with the water I used to clean up the puke.
I took BB to the garden centre for lunch. Not sure what I was thinking; there was table after table of mums being treated to lunch and cake and inquisitive eyes wondering what I was doing there on my own. Even if she’s a single mum, surely the baby’s father could take over for the day, I could see them thinking.
Of course there is no way of knowing what this Mothering Sunday will hold, and I haven’t got my hopes up. But one thing is certain: it can’t be worse than last year. Can it?
I’ll report back on Monday…