Seeing as you have all been such dedicated kraken-lovers, today you get an insight into what makes me a truly appalling mother. In fact, I have taken what should be a truly private and taboo motherly thought and splashed it all over this here website. No, no need to thank me. No need at all…
Darling Kraken Junior
It is upon us again, isn’t it, lovely girl? I know! Mothers’ Day! That time of year when you get to thank me for the eye-watering efforts and lengths I have gone to in the last five years to keep you happy/ fed/ alive. Since I saw your flap-splitting head emerge from my mossy grotto (apologies to @carolmidgley) we’ve had ups and downs and moments of such horrific flatlining – mainly when you make me play teaparties – that this Mothers’ day is truly one to be celebrated.
I dare say you have made me cards at school, finger-painted love hearts and fashioned candle holders from clay and glitter. And, yes, when I open these gifts on Sunday morn I will indeed have a smile as wide as Simon Cowell’s fevered ego. They’ll take pride of place on all the available surfaces that don’t already contain hairbands/ stickers/ crayons/ globs of snot.
There’s just one teeny, tiny problem…Just the one, so don’t fret about it too much, my darling. It’s just that as much as I adore your creative output none of it is, well, doing it for me as a thank you. Oh, it’s doing it for me as a mother but not as a true appreciation of the fact that upon meeting, you tore my perineum so violently that I can now shit through my belly button.
See, Mothers’ Day is the equivalent of giving a lifetime-dedicated, groundbreaking, cancer-busting scientist a Hello Kitty sticker rather than a Nobel Prize.
Look, if it makes you feel better you are not alone in having what the Boden Army would call an unfit mother. In fact I’ll bet every Jelly Tot that you’ve just wedged in your gob that there are thousands of women, this Mothers’ Day, who will display faux-glee when they are presented with the ham-fisted efforts of their progeny. That’s not because they don’t love their child, it’s just that no amount of Pritt-Stick and spit-riddled tissue paper can make up for the fact that motherhood has done for their careers and sex lives what Enola Gay did for Hiroshima.
It’s not your fault. No! You’re just a child/ innocent/ budding West African dictator. You don’t have a clue what it’s like to have spent every night over the last five years begging someone, for the love of fuck, to clean their teeth. And wipe their arse properly. Oh, and to not drag the cat around by her buckled whiskers.
And anyway, there’s no recompense in the world for doing that (although, just in case you are wondering, I’m not about to say that the job is priceless. It isn’t). Seriously, even though I would lay in front of a train for you, it would take a Tahitian holiday with intravenous cocktails to even scrape the surface of the bleeding nipples that I’ve suffered. Fuck knows what you’d have to do to eradicate the strains of motherhood in their entirety.
So, Kraken Junior, while I love you more than it is even possible to love, don’t get all worked up over Mothers’ Day. Fact is that while I will receive your gifts with joy, I will still save for myself a private snort at how you think a battered box of All Gold represents all that I have done. Now go get me a tissue will you? You’ve got snot running down your face again.