Sunday 30 March is Mothering Sunday. But I’m not planning to do any mothering that day. Nor am I expecting to be taken out for lunch, tea or dinner by my son. I’m not even hoping for a text, email or phone call from him unless he fancies a chat, which he sometimes does. Call me a curmudgeon, but I’d like to delete Mothering Sunday from the calendar, along with Father’s Day and Valentines Day.

What a wonderful excuse it is for children and partners to be neglectful for the other 364 days of the year. I don’t really understand how anyone could fall for being told what a lovely mother/wife they are because their child/partner pitches up laden with gifts and bonhomie on Mothering Sunday or Valentine’s Day. Doesn’t it worry anyone that it’s all a massive guilt trip inspired by crass, commercial marketing hype? It doesn’t seem to when I espy all the grinning mums, basking in their day of being doted on. The way I see it, if I’m worth being thanked for being a mum, I’m just as worth it on a rainy Tuesday in November or a sunny Saturday in July, and if my son wants to treat me to a bunch of flowers or a meal out, or even a walk in the park let it be then rather than because he’s swept up in the frenzy of restaurant bookings and buying price-hiked bouquets of flowers.  

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I’m not so grumpy as to deny it’s sweet when primary school kids come home with paper pom-poms or papier-mâché bowls to present to their mums on Mothering Sunday, and I still have some of my son’s enigmatic creations from way back in my cupboard somewhere. What I don’t like is the fact that, rather than fostering mutually-appreciative parent/child relationships, all it does long term is fill commercial coffers.

I suppose it has a lot to do with how I was brought up. My mother never went in for the saccharine sentiment of Mothering Sunday and dismissed it as pointless. But then, as an adult, I spoke to my mum regularly, saw her regularly and always let her know I appreciated her. I have no doubt that my son Thomas, who is 25, and I share a mutually rewarding relationship. Just before Christmas last year, for no obvious reason, he made a restaurant reservation for the two of us. I met him after work and we had a terrific time, chatting non-stop for three hours, and when the bill arrived he batted away my credit card. ‘What’s all this in aid of?’ I asked. ‘Nothing in particular,’ he replied and gave me a big grin. Boys aren’t so good at spelling these things out, but actually he didn’t have to. Not then, and certainly not on Mothering Sunday.

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Read Linda Kelsey's previous blogs here: The Age of Unreason.