This Sunday, across the length and breadth of Aotearoa, children and partners will be getting up at the crack of dawn to prepare breakfast in bed for the mother of their household. The thought behind this ritual, I suppose, it that poor mum is indentured to prepare breakfast for her feckless spouse and spoiled children 364 days a year. On this one day, the second Sunday of May, the fold-out tray tables are turned, and breakfast is brought to the beloved, long-suffering skivvy as she reclines blissfully in her bedroom finery.
All good in theory.
You should be nice to your mother. Go on, give her a call, she misses you. Or maybe she doesn’t, I don’t know.
The point is there are a few dos and don’ts to observe on this special day that the glossy magazines and life-style websites won’t tell you about.
Don’t bring her breakfast in bed.
Ask yourself: is my mother one of Charlie Bucket’s grandparents? If the answer is no, then cool your boots. Let the woman sleep. She’ll get out of bed when she’s good and ready.
A bed is no place for eating. It’s the wrong shape. It’s difficult to wash. It’s not supposed to smell like food. Bring her some tea and leave her alone.
Don’t cook for her once a year.
If you are only making breakfast once a year, then chances are you’re bad at it. Does the woman who gave birth to you and your enormous head deserve to eat overcooked eggs and undercooked bacon on her special day? No. Don’t be cheap. Order in.
Do pay attention to the foods she actually likes.
Just because you’re in your mid-thirties and still like a boiled egg with soldiers every morning, doesn’t mean your mother is also developmentally stunted. Spend the other 364 day noticing what your mother likes to eat. You could even ask her if you get stuck.
Don’t let her see you eat.
This is her day. Do you understand? Hers. She doesn’t want to see your slack-jawed chewing while she’s trying to enjoy her croissant. You eat when she’s finished eating. If at all. And forget Dad. He could do with a day off the pies.
Do clean up after yourself.
Did your mother give birth to half a person then pack it in for the rest of the morning?
In your case, perhaps.
But you need to finish the job. Wash the dishes, scrub the floor, vacuum the carpet, take the rubbish out. Don’t just sit there gawping. That oven won’t clean itself, Cinderella.
