Muristek
After 20 years of my very own special day, I’ve realised I like the weird ones best
Happy Mothering Sunday – an expression so cloyingly Edwardian, a tinted daguerreotype of an Angel in the House caressing the rosy cheek of a sturdy sort in frilly bloomers, it makes my teeth ache. If you celebrate, that is. If not, I get it: my mum’s dead and I know it can feel like a sharp poke to an already bruised heart. It’s nice that brands now ask if you’d like to opt out of their “10% off labiaplasty for mum on her special day” messages (enter WILLTHISDO at checkout), but it feels like just another round of emails to wade through. As with most Mother’s Day gifts, I suppose it’s the thought that counts.
It doesn’t feel like the cheeriest time to be in the reproduction game. A maternity hospital bombed, and a mother and baby killed. Missouri making a murderous attempt to criminalise terminating ectopic pregnancies, because apparently, they’re only pro unborn lives, including non-viable ones. Even in the best-case scenario, you may be struggling to calm your kids’ fear of nuclear annihilation or climate collapse, when the same things wake you nightly.
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