I do wonder, as the day comes round each year, whether we should just call today Parents Day, since not everyone is in a position to celebrate today’s seemingly special date in the way the world seems to want us to. But then, there are some who wouldn’t celebrate the double ‘Parents’ connotation either. So it’s a tricky one, really.
This year I did some lazy browsing to find out why I got breakfast in bed today, and not last Sunday, or next Sunday, or every Sunday.
As with many special days on the calendar, Mother’s Day has a religious backdrop, traditionally taking place on the fourth Sunday in Lent, and deriving from the need for workers being allowed to return to their home church, or ‘mother’ church, once a year.
Some say that over time this led to the date developing into a day for generic family reunions, especially as children often worked away from home and would therefore be returning to their families.
These days it’s all about waking up to a card full of hearts and kisses, and a slopped down cup of bedside tea that is hopefully somewhere near the Pantone of a perfect cuppa (it was, thank you J).
I wrote about Mother’s Day a few years ago, here. In terms of my feelings towards my own mother and this day, not much has changed since then, although Time does continue to do the healing thing very well (clever old Time).
I rarely have much more to say on the subject, so I’ll close, and then I might go and have another look at my card and treats before waiting patiently for my plate of toast, which I believe is en route any time now. Lucky me.