The Parent Trenches

‘Ey up

Apparently, Easter has been and gone and it’s all been back to normal this week.

Christ. What even is normal at this point?

Oh, I haven’t got time for philosophical musings today*. I’m already a week late delivering my ‘Easter’ post – I can’t get derailed in my introduction.

*Stay tuned though – I’ve got a lot to say about the N-word and the F-word.

That’s N for normal and F for functional.

Today I’m offering part-rant about how my children no longer appreciate me – if they ever did – and part-dramatisation of the Easters of yesteryear.

Something for everyone, then.

💬

I can now add Easter to the ever-lengthening list of high days and holidays that have become obsolete for me as a mother.

Because my children no longer care.

I’m talking Christmas, Mothering Sunday, Birthdays, Shrove fucking Tuesdays – over the years they’ve all fallen by the wayside. At this point I’m even looking back fondly on the deeply dreaded and utterly pointless WBD (if you know, you know).

📚

I do understand that at 23, 18 and 15, it’s perfectly reasonable for my charges to be too busy with their own, actual lives to be celebrating the likes of Easter Sunday with their mother.

But I don’t have to like it.

As a long time slummy and very single mummy, these special occasions have been days to absolutely treasure. Days I won’t get again.

And I’m having a tough time letting all that go.

🔞

Over the years I’ve put in the hard yards when it comes to the Big Occasion. Arguably it’s been one lot of over-compensating after a-mother (haha) but posh wrapping paper and huge helium balloons are a lot cheaper* than family therapy.

(*Unless you get addicted to Not on the High Street. So, don’t.)

Those days have gone *teeny violin plays

🎻

Easter isn’t the fun-filled few days it used to be when the kids were still stupid endearingly innocent enough to believe in an egg-bearing bunny and I made their weekend by giving them chocolate for breakfast.

🍫

Despite this year being a total non-event, in the past Easter has been one of the high points of my Parental Calendar.

So, in a shameless display of self-indulgence I will now share with you a soupçon of the Easter trenches of yesteryear.

🎭

It’s no yolk when I say I devised some pretty egg-cellent egg hunts over the years (it’s just impossible to resist an egg pun when your theme is Easter).

I’d write little verses for each clue.

Verses that rhymed. I did have to dial it down in the end when I started writing in iambic pentameter and fried my own brain. You could say it got a bit eggs-tra (Christ, that really is shit – it’s out of my system now).

But writing the clues was only the beginning…

Whilst basking in my poetic glory, I’d remember I still hadn’t bought a fucking printer for these occasions. I’d scour the village for help before going cap-in-hand to my father to borrow his knackered, old middle-aisle-at-Aldi one . For the third year in a row.

SCENE: Easter Saturday. A house in Yorkshire. A daughter (in her forties) has just asked a favour of a father (in his kitchen)

DAD

It’s not strictly borrowing, is it Katy?

ME

(Sheepish) No, da..

FATHER

I’ll not get it back, will I Katy?

ME

(Boot-faced) No, dad, bu..

FATHER

Ink doesn’t grow on trees, does it Katy?

ME

(Triumphant) No..but paper does!

FATHER

You always were a clever little shit, weren’t you Katy?

ME

Yes, dad. Sorry, dad.

Can I still use your printer though, dad?

FATHER

(Exasperated) Oh, fucking hell, Katy..

Finis

Three excruciating hours of panicky printing later – and one extra-large portion of the only pie I don’t like – and I was nearly done.

🖨️

Finally, I would fastidiously frenziedly cut and paste the clues onto sheets of yellow card, haphazardly decorated with themed stickers. Due to losing my head in Hobbycraft, I’d buy a hundred tiny plastic chicks I really didn’t fucking need in place of the scissors and glue I really fucking did. These were subsequently acquired by going cap-in-hand to my mother. For the third year in a row.

I rarely left her house unscathed either..

SCENE: Later that evening. A house across the street (DO NOT ASK). An increasingly deranged daughter has barged in and begun upending drawers.

ME

For fuck’s sake woman, where’s your craft shit?

MOTHER

(Aghast) I beg your fucking pardon, young lady?

ME

Sorry, mum. Hi, mum. Can I borrow some scissors and glue please, mum?

Ooh, have lost weight…

MOTHER

Don’t be facetious, Katy.

(Incredulous) You’re not doing one of those farcical Easter Egg hunts again? The kids aren’t even bothered Katy- you’re only doing it for yourself..

ME

(Bristles) Hang on, I’m running around like a lunatic trying to make it all perfect…

MOTHER

Every year you give yourself a breakdown and you give me a bloody headache. EVERY YEAR. I expect you’ve been at your father’s house? Right, well I’ll have him on the phone in five minutes bleating on about the price of ink. I’ve got my own shit going on here, Katy.

Etc etc etc.

MOTHER

For God’s sake Katy, you’re making a right mess of that cutting. You look like you’ve had a stroke. Oh, give it here or we’ll be here all night. Honestly you’ve got hands like cow’s tits.

Finis

Good times.

✂️

I would regale you with tales of my children’s unbridled joy and gratitude the next morning but I’ve run out of words. Plus, I don’t seem to recall there was much of either.

Suffice it to say, by lunchtime on Easter Sunday I would be financially and emotionally bankrupt and so beside myself I’d have to take to my bed. For an indefinite period.

But in my experience no price is too high when it comes to making mum-ories.