We don't 'DO' mothers' day ...

... mum doesn't want us to feel obliged to send her chrysanthemums or smelly soap.
I still like to show appreciation for all she did, just not on the day the corporate powers tell me to. So, here goes ...
My mum told me she had me because she "wanted to see/feel what it was like" to have a bebe. My mum, it turns out, suffered a nasty, long-term bout of postnatal depression. But she'd still get me up, fed, dressed (very stylishly) and to school, and would be there at the gate to pick me up. I think it's a credit to her that, had she not mentioned it, I'd never have known.
My mum told me one of the things that went through her head after she had me was, "I'm ## years old and the only thing I've done is something any 16-year-old can do". I'm glad she didn't have me at 16, she was the oldest mum at my school (though, pedantically, she tells me she didn't go to my school), and the only one who wore jeans.
And it wasn't true, she was one of Australia's first women commercial-radio newsreaders. And so much more besides.
My mum has supported me in everything I've ever done. Her tolerance of my idiosyncrasies is well documented. She put up with dogs because I loved them. Although, at 21, having just finished my BA, when I suggested I continue on and never leave school, she did gently suggest it may be a good idea for me to get a real job at last.
My mum, when I did get that real job, drove me and all my goods and chattels, in convoy with my brand-new, second (third, forth) hand mini, 800 or so kilometres to my first new home. She did it all again, a few years later when I moved back, and at least once in between, when I moved from a share house to my first flat of my own.
My mum helped me finally become independent. I hated being away from home, I'd call her and weep every night for weeks, hating the town, the people, the job, the not being surrounded by the familiar. Years later she confessed it took all her strength not to say "just come home darling". I'm glad she didn't, I needed to grow up and she made sure I did.
My mum, during that dark, miserable few weeks (I did eventually cheer up and love it), even contemplated sending me her favourite cat, Mehitabel, to keep me company and feeling loved. That would have been a sacrifice above and beyond all motherly duty.
My mum, during some drought years, would drive up and feed my horse in the middle of the day (she worked nights) so he wouldn't lose condition. She even took riding lessons, to see what it was that had me so enamoured.
My mum stood up for me when things went wrong as school. When I was busted for reading this book during roll call (provocative little minx that I was), she was called to the school, and she told them she gave me the book. When a creepy teacher asked her why I refused to look at him in class, she told him, "she doesn't like to be touched". Bif, Pow you bastard! (I feel it may be necessary to say it wasn't sexual, but I didn't like to be touched and he gave me the creeps in a big way.)
My mum sat up in her hospital bed, after serious surgery, and brushed birds nests out of my hair. Only she could brush my hair in a way that didn't hurt, didn't make me scream and cry. (My father, who had charge of me, clearly, could not.)
My mum supported my choice of beloved, then husband, even though he "wasn't a poet" (a youthful fantasy which now makes me blush), who was in fact, my polar opposite. It could have ended so badly (though it hasn't yet). She's even grown rather fond of him over the years.
My mum has never made me feel anything less than loved. I've made her angry, disappointed her, shocked her once or twice I'm sure. I've been on the receiving end of some of her flashing blue death stares. But she never withdrew love as a punishment, something I saw other mothers do to their daughters. She never made me feel like I needed to compete for affection, like I've witnessed in other families. She was always there with a hug, a cuddle, a snuggle, which prepared me, (a not terribly physically affectionate person) well in advance for the cuddlestorm, otherwise known as Mr Brown, that was to hit when I turned 22.
So, love you mum xxx@x