Bloke lessons for Mother’s Day

Roger Rabbits
with Jim Bunny

Listen up all you heartless, thoughtless, self-centred guys – you have about 24 hours to bring your relationship back from the brink.

You don’t really want to turn a celebration of motherhood into a decree nisi – a court order winding up a marriage, unless there’s good cause not to.

So don’t give the court good cause, don’t stuff up yet another Mother’s Day.

Like the guy who used Mother’s Day to validate the purchase of an expensive $349.99 casting rod he’d been harping on about for months, but the Chancellor of the Exchequer had vetoed.

She figured five fishing rods were enough for one man.

He bought it anyway, wrapped it and presented it with tepid tea and toast in bed on Mother’s Day.

Gross behaviour.

Bed’s for sleeping in and you don’t need toast crumbs to give you cause to scratch where you’ve never had an itch before.

And Vegemite smears on the pillowcase look like the aftermath of a surprise nocturnal nosebleed.

Anyhow, the Chancellor of the Exchequer was wise to the fishing rod and said she hated fishing, would never use it and it was basically a Mother’s Day present to himself.

And they had a ding-dong before she even got out of bed on the special day. Love you!

She was also determined he wouldn’t get a moments pleasure from her Mother’s Day present.

It was hidden away and two years later the casting rod has never cast.

Anyway, fishing seems such a pointless exercise – isn’t that why God created Bobby’s?

He’s always got lots of nice fresh fish.

Even at $40 a kilo, it’s cheaper than boats and bait, and casting rods and being rescued at sea, if you haven’t already been munched by a bronze whaler.

24 hours

Anyway … 24 hours guys, 24 hours to stop, ponder and come up with a deeply personal and thoughtful gift idea that will remind the mother of your children that she gave life, nurtured, taught right from wrong and shaped those little ones into the people they are today.

And that you are grateful.

So, no late Saturday evening runs to the Ware Whare to rescue the situation?

No early Sunday morning rescue missions to the gas station for at best flowers, or at worst a couple of warm pies with a side of campylobacter that will ensure Mother’s Day runs the whole day when you take her to A&E to have her stomach pumped.

Market research

I do some quick market research.

“Flowers? No flowers thank you,” says one mum.

“They’re easy, they’re a cop-out; they’re a waste of money.”

So a clue as to what NOT to buy.


“Another soft option.

"I do not want or need candles. No woman does.”

Candles are for Civil Defence emergencies and Wee Willie Winkie.

And don’t give us the old sidestep shuffle, the “I don’t believe in the commercialisation and consumerism of Mother’s Day”.

This is not about you. Go forth, spend and make someone who deserves to be happy ... well, happy.

What about the doting husband who gave his wife a huge bunch of flowers on Mother’s Day?

There was no note.

That was a bad lapse to start with.

What is it about women and cards?

Then the ouch moment – a few days later Mother gets the bill for the flowers.


Sometimes the thought is not enough.

And you can’t minimise this gaffe, because 40 years later she still brings it up.

Another mother has set her husband some parameters.

“I do not want you finishing a job I asked you to do six months ago for Mother’s Day.

"I warn you!”

I think she’s talking about some windows that remain unfixed, uninstalled or un-something.

And no diffusers to subtly scent her space thank you.

“Essential oils would immediately have me thinking that I must be stressed out, that I’m high-maintenance.”

All faulty

And finally a story about Mr Miserable Bastard.

“Some of his benchmark Mother’s Day presents include a vacuum cleaner, an iron and three second-hand fridges – all faulty.

"But his fishing bait fridge works perfectly.”

That would make her feel better. She just rolls her eyes and calls him useless.

But then I read somewhere of a mother who hates Mother’s Day because she feels under so much pressure to behave like the ideal mum – all meek and mum-like, clearly demonstrating her appreciation for having a day off housework, putting aside her favourite mum clothes and getting dolled up for a lunch at a restaurant she doesn’t like and food she won’t eat.

She can’t wait for bedtime so she can revert.

Seems the best bet is time and space – some “me” time, a spa, massage or facial or all of the above.

Just time away from everyone and everything.

That’s not hard to arrange.


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