Chubby little hands work fast to rummage through the pantry in search of a tasty treat. A smile creeping across the little face as his hands close in on a cheese and biscuit snack.
Surfacing from his search, my son excitedly finishes stumbling over his words as he exclaims that he is giving me the best mother’s day gift.
I couldn’t help but smile and wrap my arms around him
Two years ago was the last time I would force myself into a store that assaulted me with sugar-coated pink expressions of thankfulness to that ‘special mum’.
I would go through the process of choosing a card for my mother, I’d pick up random cards from the racks muttering to myself and desperately wanting to flee.
Unfortunately Hallmark don’t produce a card that represents my relationship with my mother. I’ve searched long and hard for the thanks-for-not-leaving-me-in-a-blanket-in-a-pig-pen card. It doesn’t exist.
Even when she was pregnant with me she lacked warmth. It was known at the time the impact pesticides would have on a fetus but yet she wasn’t having a hedge around her house. The hedge couldn’t wait. I was born with a tumor which doctors had thought was caused from the hedge killing.
Cuts on my wrist warranted a deep and meaningful about how I would never get a job with visible marks. She didn’t care I was doing it.
She would keep me in the house for weeks and not let me go anywhere. It got the stage where people in the town questioned if I even existed. When this would happen I’d be paraded around like some pig at a country fair. Once I’d been seen and confirmed to be alive it would be back to the house with me.Even to this day people think Mark and Heather only have four children.
She would put me on diets by giving me significantly less food than my brothers. My dad didn’t want a fat daughter. My mother would hiss venom at me and tell me I was just like my grandmother – a woman she would say she hated on a daily basis.
She would stand-by and watch as my father would expect me to work me just as hard as a man. I was expected to cook, clean, wash clothes. And no matter what time I got up in the morning, I would be expected to make my bed – as well as my brothers and my parents. And heaven help me if there was a crease (I never make my bed now! And my children don’t need to either!).
She wouldn’t touch me. Wouldn’t smile at me and never said that she loved me. She had me convinced that I was ungrateful – something like a mother trying to get her child to eat and reminding them that other kids have no food.
My hands tightening into balls of anger and breathing shallowly I stand in front of a rack of greeting cards.
My mother doesn’t deserve the cheap foot spa they are spruiking. She doesn’t deserve the dusty pink soft slippers and she certainly doesn’t deserve those pomegranate smelling candles.
My mother does deserve that special place in hell waiting for her though.