Glenn Dwight and his family back in the day.
We’re back at that time of year again: Mother’s Day.
Briscoes is having a sale, florists are busy turning roses into last-minute gestures of appreciation, and somewhere, a million Hallmark writers are pen deep in prose, trying to find a new way to say the same thing we’ve been trying to say for years.
Thanks, Mum.
And if I’m being honest, this Mother’s Day comes with a bit of guilt for me.
Not the traditional guilt.
Not the “I’ve forgotten, and now I’m in the car park of a servo trying to decide between slightly wilted flowers or a box of chocolates that’s been there since Easter” kind of guilt.
Not the repurposed birthday card with “Happy Birthday” crossed out and “Mother’s Day” written above it in a way that you try to pass off as ironic.
No, my guilt’s different.
It’s not about me not remembering it’s Mother’s Day, there are enough sale ads to remind me of that.
It comes from the fact that my mum doesn’t remember.
You see, my mum has Alzheimer’s.
And this article, more than anything, is just my small way of saying thank you.
Not just to her, but to mums everywhere, for being the people who do all the things that don’t always get written down or remembered properly.
They’re the ones you run to when you fall off your bike at 7, the ones who somehow know exactly what to say when you’re going through your first heartbreak, the ones who sit through school productions, sports games, and proudly add your latest drawing to the fridge like it was the Louvre.
They even manage to say you look good when you come out of your bedroom in jeans that barely stay up, once again exposing your mum to your bum (an image she probably thought she’d left behind with nappies), and hair that’s been attacked with half a container of gel.
And while it might cost them their sense of smell, they still support your Lynx Africa addiction and add it to the weekly shop.
So, because of all that, I wanted to make this article something special. Something clever. Something award-winning. Because mums deserve the best.
Working in advertising, I started thinking about using some kind of dissolving ink to print a photo of mum.
The idea being that the image would slowly fade over time, just like Alzheimer’s does with memories.
Memories that were once clear, sharp, and easy to recall gradually became harder to recognise and harder to hold onto.
It felt like a good idea. Maybe even an award-winning one.
But then I realised most people reading this would be doing it on their phone.
Although if you do like the idea and you have a mother, friend, or relative living with Alzheimer’s, maybe dig out that old fax machine, print their photo on thermal paper, and stick it on the fridge.
As the image slowly fades over time, it becomes a quiet reminder that memories can do the same, and that it’s worth making a bit more of the ones we still have, and the people we share them with, while we still can.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realised this was never really about writing something award-winning.
It was about writing something my mum would be proud of.
And the truth is, like most mums, she didn’t need much.
If I’d written “Happy Mother’s Day” on the back of an old birthday card and tried to pass it off as ironic, she would have loved it.
Not just loved it, she would have told everyone about it, and said it was lovely. Probably more than once.
Because that’s what mums do.
They’re proud.
Unreasonably proud at times.
And they’re supportive in a way that doesn’t always make sense until much later.
When I was younger, writing wasn’t really my thing. Reading wasn’t either, and I really struggled with spelling.
But mum never saw that as a limitation. She encouraged it. She backed it. And without really knowing it at the time, she gave me something far more important than good spelling.
She gave me a love of storytelling.
And that’s probably one of the hardest parts about the illness she has now. It hasn’t just taken memories. It’s taken stories. The ability to tell them, to remember them, to bring them up at the worst possible time.
The kind that would come out at the dinner table when you had mates over, and suddenly everyone’s hearing about something you did when you were 7 that really didn’t need revisiting.
At the time, you wished the ground would open up and swallow you.
Now, I’d give anything to hear one of those stories again.
So, I hope that somewhere, in the home my mum is in now, someone reads this to her.
I hope they tell her that her son wrote it and that he loves her.
And I know there’s a good chance she won’t know who they’re talking about.
And I think that’s where some of that guilt comes from.
Not the forgotten cards or last-minute flowers, but all the Mother’s Days that passed where I didn’t say enough, didn’t visit enough, didn’t quite realise how important those moments were.
So, if you’re wondering what to do this Mother’s Day, I don’t think it needs to be complicated.
Give your mum some time.
Because time is what they’ve always given us.
And maybe, if you’re looking for something to do together, put on The Castle.
Because if there’s ever been a movie that captures what a family is, and especially what a parent is, it’s that one.
There’s a moment in it where Darryl Kerrigan proudly talks about his son digging a hole, and you realise it doesn’t matter what the achievement is.
Big or small, impressive or completely pointless, parents have this ability to see it as something worth celebrating.
“That’s going straight to the pool room.”
That kind of pride. That’s what mums do.
And it’s not just mums in the traditional sense either. Mother’s Day is for all of them. The mums, the stepmums, the grandmothers, the aunties, the mates who step in when needed, the dads who take on both roles, the people who show up, care, and put others first in a way that feels very familiar.
So, to you, mum, thank you.
In the words of one of my favourite songs…
Do you know just how beautiful you are?
When there’s nothing left to say
You’re the brightest star
And to all the others out there, we might not always say it properly, or often enough, but it’s there.
We love you.