I am terrible at remembering and celebrating occasions.
Buying gifts, sending cards, making phone calls, hosting visitors, throwing parties. My food is bland and pedestrian, my house is tiny and ugly, I have no interest in creating themed tablescapes made from vintage tea cups and artfully placed garden debris and more often than not I simply just forget them. I have no doubt that at times this has shocked and offended people I care about. For that I sincerely apologise.
But surely I would at least remember calendar occasions I have a vested interest in? Surely. Mother’s Day 2013.
Here I was patting myself on the back for buying, writing in and sending my own mother a card for Mother’s Day this year. It arrives before the actual date. I get a phone call of thanks. I puff up with pride.
Days later in an entirely unrelated conversation my husband tells me I have the date wrong.
Surely not. Mother’s Day in Australia is the first weekend in May. It has to be. Why would such an important milestone day with the weight of several millennia of tradition behind it fall on any other Sunday in May? Why would anyone choose a date for the premier event in the Hallmark calendar that is pointless, arbitrary and confusing.
A quick Google search tells me that Mother’s Day falls on the second Sunday in May.
I have the entire power of the internet at my fingertips to check the actual date and I still sent my Mum a card two weeks early. I’ve been exhorting my mama friends a smug and self-congratulatory “Happy Mother’s Day!” weeks in advance. I ordered my own present online four weeks ago. In true Hugzilla-style it has not yet arrived and if the universe is fair and just it probably won’t get here in time anyway despite having a five week lead time courtesy of my own stupidity.
Happy Mother’s Day. Whenever it is.
I haven’t prepared a stylized photo shoot to accompany this post so here is a picture of devon sandwiches I took several months ago.
Disclaimer: I do not eat devon sandwiches.