Are you a Mother? Have you ever wanted to be one? Did you know that Australian Mothers and Australian women in general (1000 all up) recently overwhelmingly voted that the microwave oven had done more for women’s freedom in the last 30 years than both the contraceptive pill and tampons (!!!)… need I comment further?

Armed with the knowledge that I had a 1600 watt microwave oven if I needed it, I haplessly agreed to mother my then 18 month old and three and half year old nieces for an hour. Only one of them takes after me so this should be OK… right? Wrong. It was only one hour, but it was more than enough to question my mothering instincts. The 18 month old passed a not so solid motion and I’m not so sure whether I was shocked more by the retched smell or the fact that there was shit near everywhere. The eldest got all emotional and started screaming at me as in my effort to rein in the poo, I administered the nappy all ass about and put it on back to front.

So I would like to formally recognise Mothers everywhere who have to put up with shit both figuratively and literally from newborn to early adulthood (in some cases) but particularly to the two generations of Mothers in my family who have had it particularly tough raising a Kramer. Although perhaps not as bad as some, it was reported this week that a Florida woman’s Mother sadly passed away and so she hid her body in a bedroom for six years whilst she collected her old age pension.

Forget cups of tea in bed or shouting Mum lunch, this lady spent Mothers Day this year at the bank cashing pension cheques, Weekend at Bernie’s style. She could have embalmed her, stuffed her even (did anyone else catch Taxidermy: stuff the world… on ABC Monday night?). I imagine Weekend at Bernie’s ceases to be cool when body parts begin to liquefy and drop off.

In light of this very sad situation I think we need to show the older generation of Mothers a tad more respect. Id like to tell you a story about my grandmother whose life has always appeared to imitate art. Yes… she does look a smidgen like Ruth Cracknell from the ABC’s Mother & Son. Stay with me here, as she has her own version of Robbie too. And a son (who is single) who she lives with, and is balding and sports a moustache… the spitting image of Gary Macdonald.

She’s the one that in an effort be the centrifugal force of all human attention in a room full of presents and people at Christmas, seemingly politely waits till everyone else’s are open and all eyes are on her. Then she proceeds to open her intended gifts sticky tape piece by piece of sticky tape, exaggerated expectation, the bearer’s hearts heave when she comes to their present. And after five minutes of intricately unwrapping a simplistically wrapped gift… “Oh… what is this for”. Or… “what am I supposed to do with this?” as she thrusts it in the air, a genuine question. “Oh Nan, I thought you could use it for blah blah blah”. She raises her eyebrows, the corner of her lips already downward, she discards the present and moves to the next victim. Wrapped in $4.95 a sheet from the newsagents plus a golden bow… false expectations are the detriment of all good intentions.

So dear old Hazel is now 80 plus, and although she has been ill and close to death for 20 odd years now… it is in the last five years where her illness has fallen short of borderline hypochondria. Two instances come to mind, on both occasions she was hospitalised with near fractured hips… and she has the bolts to prove it.

And with her descent has come intriguing revelation after intriguing revelation. For sad as it is that this sharp, witty woman, has slowed a little (slowed in communication in some respects but not in others) there has been an intriguing positive aspect that has exposed itself. A renewed memory, forgetfulness overcome, perhaps more so a subtle loss of pride. For in the last couple of years there has been a trickle of stories not previously heard by any party, float to the surface. My favourite thus far involved the mothering of my own Father.

It came from nowhere one day while I was visiting. She was yet again telling the story of how my Father was a “sickly little boy”. After all these years, and having heard the story on many occasions, there was still no indication as to what was actually wrong with my Father and what in fact were his symptoms. All that is known about this mystery illness to this day is that it went on for over five years, he was skinnier and smaller than his younger brother Bruce, and that he cried an awful lot.

Well this particular day Nanna had yet again launched into the “sickly Maurice” story when she suddenly divulged the fact that she would have him in the cot next to her in bed at night so that she could attend to him easily enough without getting out of bed. No mention of my Grandfather Jim who from all accounts would have been a) still at the pub, or b) shagging a doe-eyed minor.

According to Nanna, back in the day they would put a concoction of rum and sweetened condensed milk on the dummies in a move to pacify the littlies. It usually did the trick but this particular night Morrie would simply not stop screaming. After countless half conscious dips in the rum jar he was still screaming come the early hours so Nanna, drunk from lack of sleep, turned on the light. She found Morrie still screaming, face all flushed and distraught, both eyes bulging red and burning. The dummy (coated in rum and sweetened condense milk) lodged in his left eye.

My own Mother’s trials and tribulations with her offspring have been more than trying at times. They probably seemed trivial in the early days… a note from the teacher here and there. Then my brother in the car one afternoon after school… seven or eight I suppose but in tears all the same. Mum finally coerced the story out and then stormed into the school yard to find the culprit. Apparently Dan had been in the loos and his former BFF Chris Eggleton had weed right up his leg… on purpose no less.

But over the years the trivial finally gave way to the not so trivial but bloody annoying.  And Mum just kept on Mothering relentlessly. One of her last overwhelmingly selfless acts of mothering in the 21st century was on the eve of Mothers Day 94 or 95. It was a Saturday night and Mum was sound asleep while I was at a party, drunk and in the kitchen playing with knives… and not figuratively. The knife was thrown into the air and I stupidly lunged forward successfully catching it. Blood shrouded the kitchen and my companions were generous enough to offer me a Bandaid.

I almost lost a thumb that night. Mum diffidently took that 3am phone call, dexterously put up with my screaming and hostilities at the hospital (nine stitches and I felt every one) and then dutifully took me home at five in the morning. And the next day was Mothers Day and it was like she was 35 again for I was an imbecile toddler. I needed help and to this day will never ever disrespect a thumb again. Getting dressed, showering, doing up shoelaces. It was like I was three. I could not have survived without Mum.

So day in day out we take our Mums for granted. Every one of us (you included), perhaps women who have since had their own children take them for granted a little less. But this year let’s recognise Mums who are there for us regardless. Like a spencer warn on a warm day turned cool, a cask of wine at home when the bar has been drunk dry, or a kebab at the Oasis (Beaumont St, Hamilton) at the end of a long night. Here’s to Mums being there in our finest, but particularly our not so finest hours… when we need them the most.

NB And the knife story wasn’t even my finest of finest hours. I want to hear some other stories about Mums simply being Mums in the face of adversity and plain ugliness displayed by their beloved offspring…