Mothering...

I've often wondered why in the UK we have the term 'Mothering Sunday' for Mothers' Day and why it's a completely different date to other parts of the world?  I turned to trusty Google and discovered that like all good festivals it has a Christian origin and in English tradition involves cake. In Surrey and Kent it was even called Pudding Pie Sunday - excellent! Take a look at this Kentish Pudding Pie recipe from the Telegraph; looks delicious but guaranteed to turn hips and thighs into roly poly puddings too. 

(image credit: surrey-online.co.uk)

Apparently, Mothering Sunday in the UK dates back to the sixteenth century when people would return back to their 'mother church' - either their local church or the one where their family was based. Children and young people 'in service' (basically servants for the rich) would finally get a day off to visit their mothers and give them a gift. Traditionally, girls in service would often bake and decorate a simnel cake to give to their mothers in gratitude and as proof of their domestic skills.  Because Mothering Sunday falls on the fourth Sunday of Lent it makes sense that this type of cake is more closely associated with Easter. 

(image credit: e-Forwards.com)

We don't really hear the term 'mothering', at least not with positive connotations. To be accused of mothering would be an indictment of being over-protective, controlling and refusing to let your children grow up.  Much press is given to bad mothers, jealous and resentful parenting and almost every shortcoming is often blamed on a mother's failings. I don't think there's enough positive affirmations of mothering or positive images that  are not linked to religious icons or dodgy celebrities (don't forget Kerry Katona managed the accolade of Mum of the Year - twice!)  

It's hard to articulate just what 'mothering' is in the truest sense of the word though; 'nurturing' does not seem adequate.  When I first became a mum I found it difficult to explain to my ex-colleagues just exactly what I did all day and why it felt so much more important than anything I had achieved in the world of work. 

Naomi Stadlan gives one of the best summations of a mother's work I can think of in her book 'What Mothers Do':

'...Mothers, who are doing so much, often describe themselves as sitting around, doing nothing. They feel lonely, invisible and unimportant. Yet their work belongs to much more than one organisation. Each mother is preparing her child to belong to the society that we all share. It doesn't seem too much to say that the whole of civilisation depends on the work of mothers...'

I also like this extract from 'The Hand That First Held Mine' by Maggie O'Farrell where one of the main characters, Lexie, muses on the women we become after children:

"We change shape, we buy low heeled shoes...We begin to carry in our bags half-eaten rusks, a small tractor, a shred of beloved fabric, a plastic doll. We lose muscle tone, sleep, reason, perspective. Our hearts begin to live outside our bodies...We learn that we must sometimes walk an inch at a time, to stop and examine every stick,  every stone...We learn how to cool a fever, ease a cough, the four indicators of meningitis, that one must sometimes push a swing for two hours" 

This is the minutiae of mothering; the caring, the worrying and the loving that fill our days, and nights, and ensure that we are inextricably bound by the heartstrings to our children. So here's to mothers on this Mothering Sunday, and to a life's work. 

A little light reading

A rather special thing happened this week. Well, it was wonderful to me but may well seem a little trivial to others. S started reading my library book and what's more she is thoroughly enjoying it, taking every opportunity she can to get back to the story including smuggling a torch under the bedclothes. This is a girl who despite being a good reader, preferred the limited scope of Captain Underpants and Humphrey Hamster.  Whilst I'm always pleased to see children reading, and I've nothing against these characters (well not Humphrey anyway) - or the over popular Jacqueline Wilson of which we have a whole dedicated shelf - I am delighted to see that she's crossed over to where the literary grass  is most definitely greener.  Now I can talk to her about it,  she discusses characters with me, makes predictions about what might happen and we have our own little mother daughter book club going on.

What a pleasure reading is.  After a stressful day I like nothing better than retreating with a good book to a cosy spot in front of the fire, though often I take said book up to the bath, another favourite reading location. Having on more than one occasion accidentally dropped it in, it's one of the main reasons I don't use a kindle!   I am also fond of reading in bed, while dunking chocolate biscuits in my coffee. When deeply engrossed, I sometimes turn the page before noticing the melted chocolate droppings then squished between the pages.  I'll say now that I am truly sorry, Dunbar Library, for the often interesting  state that I return books in. 

Look! Look!

I distinctly remember the process of learning to read.  It was something I desperately wanted to do long before starting school.  My mother read the same bedtime book over and over at my request and, having memorised it word for word, I set about using the book as my code breaker for others.  By the time I started school I was able to read books meant for older children and so I found the 1970s selection of picture books and pre-readers incredibly disappointing.  In particular the Janet and John series and the slightly later, and just as dreary, Peter and Jane were mind-numbingly dull (though now the illustrations have vintage appeal).  For those too young to be familiar with, or too old to remember, this depressing series then I'll explain.  These books supported the 'look and say' method of learning to read and consisted of endlessly repetitive sentences, 'Here is Jane', 'Look Jane is here', 'Here comes Jane', 'Look, Look, Peter. Can you see Jane?'   AAAaaarrgghhh! Wait, Peter has killed Jane for being sssoooo boring!

Ok that didn't happen but you get the idea. It doesn't surprise me at all to learn that the proponent of this torturous scheme, William Murray,  used to be the head of a school for the 'educationally subnormal'  (that really was the name of the school by the way not me being politically incorrect).

I don't think the man in the sweet shop should be trusted!

Fortunately, I was able to read a whole host of much more thrilling books at home; by thrilling I mean that they actually had a plot. (Take note, Mr Murray: 'Here is a plot', 'They have a plot', 'There was a plot!')  One of my absolute favourites was the classic series Little Grey Rabbit by Alison Uttley.  She is often confused with Beatrix Potter or Enid Blyton (who incidentally she knew and despised) but personally I think she has a far more magical way with words.  I recently bought a copy in a second hand bookstore and took a trip down  nostalgia lane, re-reading many of the stories I remember so fondly.

Apart from Rabbit herself there are the delights of Brock the Badger, Speckledy Hen and, how could I forget, little hedgehog Fuzzypeg. You would be forgiven for thinking that the author of these charming tales was as sweet and charitable as the characters she created but by all accounts she was a frightfully difficult woman, controlling and prone to jealous rages.  Nevermind, I will ignore the facts behind the creator and immerse myself again in Grey Rabbit's fluffy world; it's often much nicer than the real one.

Little Grey Rabbit helps Fuzzypeg who has managed to turn himself into a snowball