Slippers, whispers and giggles filled the hallway early in the morning. Little toes ventured towards my bedroom door, big eyes peeked in, making sure I was “asleep”. The door closed and excited whispers were mixed with bowls crashing and toast burning.
I lay in bed awaiting my surprise.
Soon a delivery of orange juice arrives, its tastes good despite the addition of the My Little Pony polyester dressing gown sleeve that took up residence in the glass during delivery.
I smile. They love me.
I wait a few more minutes and am invited to sit at the breakfast table.
I sneak into the bathroom to add some undergarments to my pyjamas because no one wants to see that truth of motherhood first thing in the morning.
I enter the kitchen to find a beautiful bunch of flowers, a cooked breakfast and four smiling children.
I smile. They love me.
I bask in their home-made cards, cuddles and general adoration.
“I Love you so much my head could pop off Mum!”
“You’re the best Mum in the whole world!”
“I love you Mum”
We giggle and laugh as we celebrate our relationship. Home.
As we delve into our morning feast my eldest slides his thumb across his phone, raises his eyebrows and asks with a slight hint of annoyance “Why did we make Mum breakfast?”
Like a needle scratching across my favourite Abba record, my Mother’s Day nirvana came to a startling halt.
“What do you mean WHY?”
“I just looked it up, It’s not Mother’s Day until next week”.
Adoring eyes swiftly transitioned into vacant stares across the table.
“Are you serious?”
The horror of the situation descended upon them. Arising early unnecessarily - devastating. Futile breakfast preparation – mortifying. Inessential pocket money purchases – highly regrettable.
Awkward silence ensued.
The youngest one, not yet having learnt the art of subtlety, shrugged her shoulders and got up from the table in search of the IPad. The others took the cue and rushed off to pursue more enjoyable activities leaving me sitting at the table with a selection of toast crusts, a stack of dirty crockery and a burnt beyond recognition frying pan.
So… we will pick up where we left off next week then?
Being Sunday we still had church to attend.
We scurried around sorting outfits, brushing hair, finding shoes, spruiking the time every 2 minutes in the vain hope that it might cause family members to… I don’t know… pick up the pace perhaps?
We cram into the car, all six of us. We smell good, we look good, we are primped, we are primed.
We love going to Church, Celebrating God. On Sundays.
Soon the music starts. It’s a bit wobbly to be honest, earnest, but wobbly. Still, I’m sure God enjoys it all the same, it is offered with love.
I smile, I love God.
We sing aloud our jubilant praises to our God, we lift Him high, we honour Him, we praise Him, we exalt Him.
How Great is Our God.
I bask in the glow of worship, I love spending time with God, he is my everything, my all.
We listen and learn as we gather as a family to study his word.
I escape momentarily into the blissful alternate universe where I, once again, remember that I am a fallen creature, redeemed by my loving Father. So undeserving, I am so loved. Thank you, Father.
I smile, I love God
The service ends and I waft out of the church caressing my new-found peace and all round Christian awesomeness.
Then, like a sledgehammer to my tender heart my husband trespasses into dangerous territory, daring some horrid indiscretion. Perhaps he didn’t hear me when I asked him a question, perhaps he spoke to the person next to him leaving me awkwardly hanging, perhaps he blew his nose too loudly, whatever, he offended me.
And it was all over.
I’m leaving you at the table God, with a few crumbs, a bit of pocket money and an hour of my heartfelt love and thanks. I’ll see you next week.
Because for some reason this grouchy unfulfilling bitter life is easier than living in the freedom of your love every day.
So yeah, Happy Mother’s Day God.